The Greatest of These
by PadmeKSkywalker
Summary: [movie based] The White Witch comes to Aslan's camp to claim Edmund as her own, but Aslan is gone. Peter, newly made High King of Narnia, is left to make a decision that will change his life forever—or end it.
1. Chapter 1

"Narnia's not going to run out of toast, Ed." 

Edmund, his mouth full, quickly swallowed the offending foodstuff. Lucy grinned and laughed; Susan only smiled. Then her eyes flicked upward, from her place on the little table, to see Peter walking over the little hill toward them.

The other three Pevensies had not seen him since a short time earlier that morning, when Oreius had come to fetch him. When he sat down at the table, Susan, most practical, was the first to speak.

"Where were you?" she asked, as Peter sat down at the table beside her.

"Did you talk to Aslan?' Lucy asked eagerly. Peter nodded, reaching for the plate of toast which Edmund had abandoned. Lucy shot Edmund a triumphant look, as if to say, "I told you so."

"He's going," said Peter, once he'd chewed and swallowed. He looked around the table at his siblings. "Aslan's going."

"Where?" Edmund demanded at once. Peter shrugged a shoulder.

"He didn't say, exactly," he admitted. "I think he's gathering more troops."

To the other three, this was good news. They relaxed, but Peter's expression remained serious. "You don't get it," he said exasperatedly, his voice urgent. "If Aslan's gone, I'm the only one left, aren't I?"

"Are not," Edmund managed, as soon as he had gulped down a mouthful of cool water. "We're kings and queens of Narnia too, you know."

"Yes, but I'm High King."

"Who told you that?" Edmund challenged crossly.

"Aslan," said Peter. In any other instance, there would have been at least some trace of smugness in his voice. Right now, though, he appeared too nervous for that. "What if something happens while Aslan's away? _I'm_ supposed to deal with it?"

"Peter, relax," said Susan, smiling reassuringly at him. "Nothing's going to happen now. Besides, he'll get back soon, right?"

Peter nodded slowly. "I imagine so," he said. "He told me he'd be back for the battle, anyway."

"Well, there you are," said Susan. "There's nothing to worry about." She went back to her breakfast, completely unperturbed. Edmund still looked irritated that Peter was in charge rather than himself, but said nothing. To his credit, he was doing his best to reconcile himself with the idea; after all, Peter could have said some nasty things, all true, to him earlier, and had refrained.

Lucy, already finished with her meal, had taken the dagger from her belt and was now turning its unsheathed blade over in her hands. "Do you suppose you and I will be fighting?" she asked, addressing herself to Susan. "I don't think I could do very much with this. It's not nearly as long as Peter's sword."

"You're not fighting," said Peter firmly. "And I don't think Sue should, either."

"Why not?" demanded Susan.

"Because you're girls," Edmund broke in self-importantly. "Girls always lose their heads when they get scared."

"_Because_," said Peter, giving Edmund a look, "I don't want you to get hurt. What would I tell Aslan and the rest of Narnia if you got killed? What would I tell _Mum_?"

The idea of dying did not seem to worry Lucy much. On the contrary, she seemed quite amused by the thought. "Tell her we sacrificed ourselves for our country!" she said, giggling.

"But I'm meant to fight," said Susan, as though that settled the matter. "Father Christmas wouldn't have given me real weapons if he didn't want me to use them."

"In an emergency," Peter countered. "You girls aren't to be near the actual battle at all, if I can help it. If I had things my way, Edmund wouldn't even be going in to fight."

"I can use a sword just as well as you can!" protested Edmund.

"It's much easier to run into battle yourself than to let your family." Peter looked at each of his siblings in turn. "I have to not let anything happen to you—to _any _of you," he added, noticing Edmund's sullen glare. "The only reason Ed's going is because Aslan has already ordered his armor prepared."

"So are we not supposed to help?" asked Lucy rather irritably.

"You're not supposed to get yourself killed. That would be worse than losing the battle."

"No, it wouldn't," Susan retorted.

"It would as far as I'm concerned."

Susan gave him a patronizing pat on the arm. "Well, then, I'll stand off to one side if it makes you feel better. But you'll let me shoot if I see an enemy."

"I _won't._"

"—and I'll stay hidden and keep my wits about me, and _I'll _use the bow that Father Christmas gave to _me_." Susan's voice contained enough authority to cow her brother, who reached morosely across the small table and snagged a few grapes before straightening up and popping them into his mouth in silence.

"And what about me?" asked Lucy. "What'll I do?"

"You'll be the brave healer that stands on the sidelines and saves everyone's lives just in time," said Edmund with a grin, ending the discussion. Lucy didn't seem inclined to argue anyway.

After breakfast, the children went their separate ways. Lucy and Susan went for some target practice, while the boys found mounts—Peter a unicorn, Edmund a Talking Horse—to prepare themselves for battle on horseback. At least, that was their original plan, but when they actually found themselves on their respective mounts, it was so enjoyable that they spent a good half-hour just chasing each other idly around a field. It was Peter who first picked up a sword, and discovered that maneuvering the thing while on horseback was not as easy as he might have thought. Together, he and Edmund set to practicing.

"First blood!" crowed Edmund as he tapped Peter sharply on the elbow with the flat of his blade. They circled around each other on brown and white steeds, their swords flashing in the bright sunlight and ringing out like twin bells as they struck. These were not heavy, ungainly weapons, such as what might be found in our world—no, these were Narnian swords, perfectly balanced, beautifully made, so that it was not a privilege to wield them, but a joy.

"Your Majesties!" came an urgent voice from behind them. Edmund craned his neck around Peter, who had to turn his mount around before he could see who was speaking.

"Your Majesties!" repeated Mr. Beaver breathlessly, "She's here!"

"Who?" asked Edmund, although he had a sinking feeling that he already knew.

"The Witch herself," Mr. Beaver said in a voice filled with worry. "She's coming through the camp _right now_!"

Edmund looked quickly at Peter, who glanced back at him. Peter's face, easily read, reflected first only a feeling of consternation. Then slowly, an expression of growing alarm appeared on his features.

"Couldn't—she just leave a message with someone?" Peter asked weakly.

After having been assured that this was not an option, the brothers made their way down the hill in the direction of Aslan's encampment, with Mr. Beaver running a short distance ahead. Sounds of shouting met their ears as they grew closer; Peter swallowed and spurred his mount on. Edmund did the same.

Even before they had technically reached the camp, it was not difficult to see where the Witch was, for around her stood a crowd of immense proportions. Every Talking Beast, every faun and centaur, every dryad and naiad, stood around her, crying out with unabashed anger.

In the midst of this chaos was the Witch herself; unable to use her sleigh—for here there was no snow, but green grass and shining skies—she sat instead on a litter, borne on the shoulders of four gruesome, hulking creatures. The awful dwarf that Edmund remembered all too well walked before her, doing his best to shout above the roar, "Make way for Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands!", which was not a statement received well. The Witch herself seemed deaf to the unflattering shouts around her, but only continued forward, until the litter stopped directly before Aslan's tent.

As one, the creatures knelt clumsily, and the Witch dismounted. Instantly there was a hush. Those under Aslan's protection knew themselves safe, but the fear the Witch had beaten into them for a hundred years was not to be easily dismissed. As she stepped forward, the Narnians stepped backward; Peter and Edmund, at the very edge of the crowd, slid off their horses and began making their way toward her.

"So," said the Witch, in a voice that was as icy as her reign and carried on the wind. She did not have to shout to be heard. "Where is the great cat?" she asked the multitude in a mocking tone. "Where is your precious Aslan?"

There had not yet been time for the news to get around that Aslan had gone; people were nudging each other, muttering furiously under their breath, looking anxiously at the gold and red tent, its canvas flaps fluttering in the wind. The brothers at last reached the front of the crowd, but were careful to remain inconspicuous, Edmund standing slightly behind Peter.

The Witch smiled at the mass of creatures, a cold, tight-lipped smile. She did not see Edmund, nor Peter, for her back was turned to them. "So your brave protector does not deign to see me," she said. "No matter—it is not Aslan that I need. Give me the human traitor, and there will be no bloodshed."

Cries of shock rang out around the campground; the little one, with the dark hair, did she mean him? Yes, she must, for it was he that Aslan had denounced, and then forgiven. But how dare she ask for such a thing?

"She's mad," Peter muttered; he could feel Edmund's hot, nervous breath on the back of his neck. "Thinking she can march in here and ask for a prisoner back."

But Mr. Beaver, down near Peter's feet, shook his head. "It's in the laws of Narnia," he said in a low voice. "Anyone who betrays Narnia belongs to her."

"But why?" asked Peter plaintively. Mr. Beaver shrugged.

"I couldn't tell you that," he said. "It's Deep Magic. Aslan's law. Traitors are as filthy as she is; she deserves 'em." Then, upon seeing Edmund's stricken face, Mr. Beaver patted the boy's hand. "Of course, I didn't mean you," he said comfortingly.

The Witch's eyes had found Susan and Lucy on the opposite side of the crowd, clutching each others' hands as they watched her with horrified and angered faces. She smiled that slow, awful smile again. "The Deep Magic cannot be ignored," she said to them. "Your brother's blood is my property."

"Try and take him, then!" Peter burst out, pulling his sword from its sheath with a sound that sliced the air to point it at the Witch. Alarmed by the sudden action, Edmund grabbed the back of his shirt before he saw that Peter intended only to take a single step forward. The Witch turned, saw them for the first time. The look she gave Peter, cold and withering, was terribly unnerving, but he did not waver.

"Do you really think mere force will deny me my right?" she asked patronizingly, her eyes hard, "little king?"

Peter's face flushed; the Witch turned from him as though he were no more threat to her than a fly, and he sheathed his sword again, biting his lip.

"Aslan knows that unless I am appeased as the law demands," the Witch was saying, "all of Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water! That boy—" she whirled, leveling a finger at Edmund's face "—will die, on the Stone Table!"

The blood drained from Peter's face. Behind him, he felt Edmund shrink backwards fearfully, but he grabbed his brother's arm.

"…as is tradition," the Witch finished smugly into the shocked silence. "Aslan dares not refuse me."

His heart pounding furiously, Peter released Edmund's arm. He desperately wished Aslan could have foreseen this when he had decided to make Peter second in command. Stepping forward a short distance into the circle, he spoke up. "Aslan is not here. Anything you have to say can be said to me."

He saw the corners of the Witch's mouth twitch. "Very well, my little prince," she said. "Lead me."

Peter's eyes flicked anxiously around the camp. He dared not take her into Aslan's tent; that would be sacrilege. The only place he could think of was the tent where he had slept the night before. Self-consciously, aware of everyone's eyes upon him and especially the Witch's, he moved through the crowd. It parted warily for him as he walked toward the tent; Peter felt Oreius's heavy hand upon his shoulder as he passed him, and his nerves abated slightly.

He did not look back to see if the Witch was following him, but when he paused at the entrance of the tent, there she was. Without thinking, Peter held the canvas flap open for her; she stepped inside, brushing against him as she did so, and Peter flinched instinctively. She had to duck her head, she was so tall. Then Peter stepped inside himself.

As soon as the cloth fell, leaving them in dimness so that it was a moment before Peter's eyes adjusted, a coil of fear twisted itself in his stomach. He had his sword still at his side; the Witch had nothing but her hands. But they were strong hands, made all of sinew and muscle. They hung, deceptively idle, at her sides now, but they were powerful all the same. Peter thought of those hands as he remembered the ugly, unexplained bruise that still remained on Edmund's cheek, and he grew a little braver.

"Your wish to save your brother is a noble one, no doubt," said the Witch, still standing as she faced him calmly. "But it is a futile one."

"Edmund's not a traitor," said Peter suddenly, surprised to hear the strength in his own voice. "He made a mistake."

"And yet he would have seen you killed," the Witch pointed out sharply. "You and your sisters and all of Narnia."

Peter opened his mouth to protest—no, not Edmund. Edmund would have never harmed his siblings, he had only been selfish, forgotten the inevitable consequences of his actions—but the Witch stepped closer toward him, her eyes slits of malice. She bent slightly at the waist, leaning down and forward as though to speak to a child.

"You have no way of denying me what is mine," she said, in a voice that was very low. "You are not a force in Narnia; you are a boy, a lost little boy, wandering in a world that is not your own. You are not a king, and not even a king, not even Aslan, could take the traitor from me."

Her eyes were black, so black, less like pupils and irises than simply two dark holes set against her white skin. But Peter never took his eyes from hers. He did not dare to.

"Give me your brother," she said. Her long fingers reached up to bite into his shoulder. "Give me the traitor, and Narnia lives. Take him for yourself, keep him selfishly for a few miserable days, and Narnia will die, crushed under the weight of the Deep Magic."

Peter could almost feel his shoulders sagging with the burden she was placing upon them. It seemed to take every ounce of strength he had to just keep standing straight, to force his chin up, to keep staring into those bottomless eyes that bored into him.

"But mark my words," said the Witch, emphasizing each word as she spoke, "I—must—have—blood."


	2. Chapter 2

The instant that Peter disappeared with the Witch behind the canvas walls, restless murmurs descended over the camp. Susan and Lucy immediately walked over to Edmund and hugged him comfortingly; Edmund returned the gesture half-heartedly, not because he did not appreciate the gesture but because he could take no comfort in it. Peter was the responsible one, always taking the safe option—Peter always knew what had to be done. Now, he would do it, and Edmund could not, in any fairness, blame him. 

At first, almost everyone remained where they were, thinking that the two of them would emerge soon. But when first fifteen minutes, then half-an-hour passed, slowly the crowd began to disperse, spreading out until there was room to breathe. All were wondering what Peter could possibly do to appease the Witch's demand. Susan, Edmund, and Lucy found a spot on the ground a few yards away from the entrance to the tent, sitting in a loose circle.

_What is he doing in there?_ Edmund wondered. _What could he say? _Strong as his brother was, he couldn't imagine Peter standing up to the White Witch of Narnia. He, Edmund, had felt the full force of her will, and knew how powerful it was. He curled his legs beneath him, waiting miserably for the moment when Peter would emerge, head bowed, and pronounce the inevitable sentence.

There was nothing any of them could say that would not echo uselessly in the silence. Edmund picked bits of grass from the ground, ripping them to pieces between nervous fingers. Lucy laid a gentle hand on his arm, and Edmund only felt worse.

A sudden hush caused him to raise his head—the Witch had stepped out of the tent, throwing aside the flaps with one swift motion of her hands. Her face was inscrutable, betraying no hint of the exchange which had taken place. She walked slowly to her litter; oh where, Edmund wondered desperately, had Peter gone?

There he was, twitching the tent flap open with a cautious movement of his hand. All eyes were upon him again; Susan's arm curved protectively around Edmund. But, about to step into the litter, it was the Witch who turned to address the multitude once more.

"I have renounced my claim upon the human traitor," she announced loudly, dispensing with any preamble.

A roar of joy burst from the crowd, a giant, overpowering wave of sound, every Narnian rejoicing as though it had been their own life on the line. Edmund looked up shakily, unable to believe what he had heard. He saw Peter running toward him, falling to his knees beside him, and suddenly Edmund was being simultaneously strangled and smothered by Lucy's arms clinging to his neck and Susan's suffocating embrace. He waited to push them off until he absolutely had to take a breath.

"You're sure?" he choked out, meeting Peter's gaze. "She said I'm safe?"

Peter nodded. "You're safe, Ed," he echoed. "I promise." His hand reached out to touch his brother's, and Edmund was surprised to feel the tremble in it. _He was worried about me,_ he thought, suddenly aware that he had never considered that possibility before.

Amidst the cheers and laughter, Peter's gaze flicked to where the Witch was being carried through the crowd on the shoulders of her lackeys. He watched her go, Edmund thought, with an expression of inordinate thoughtfulness, until she disappeared into the mass. Then he turned his eyes back to Edmund, and there they stayed.

* * *

Edmund would have liked to relax, spend the whole day taking in the knowledge that, as Peter had promised, the Witch could harm him no longer. But this he could not do, for there was still a battle that had to take place, and soon. Plans must be made, armor must be fitted, weapons must be sharpened and tested and then sharpened again. Peter was kept busy for the greater part of the day, and Edmund helped as best he could, although since he didn't know much about battles, his assistance came mainly in the capacity of messenger and errand boy. 

Problems seemed to arise with every step they took; the most pressing one at the moment happened to be an entire lot of faun helmets that had gone missing. The fauns were insistent that they couldn't wear the helmets made for dwarves, and the dwarves, who had plenty of extra headgear, couldn't understand what the problem was and why couldn't the fauns just cover their horns? The boys did their best to placate both sides, but it wasn't until Peter discovered the missing helmets on the other side of camp that the tempers were abated.

At long last, sometime during the late afternoon, Peter, Edmund, and a few of the centaur leaders gathered near Aslan's tent. A table had been set up, with a map and little figures representing each faction of Aslan's army. Peter, standing in front of the table, bent over it with arms straightened against it. He stared intently at the parchment for a moment, his tongue caught between his teeth as he thought.

Edmund gazed at the map as well, a bit hopelessly; neither of them understood the first thing about planning a campaign. Sensing this, one of the centaurs, called Ryndel, stepped forward.

"We have many archers at your disposal, my King," he said, gesturing with a finger toward a long cliff on the map that faced the direction of the Witch's camp. "This ridge gives them an advantage; they can attack, but still be relatively safe."

Edmund saw Peter's eyes light up slowly, like they did at school when he had just figured the key to a difficult problem. "Yes, do that," Peter said decisively. "What about the foot soldiers, though? If we start them out too far, they'll be hit by the archers' arrows, but we can't have the Witch's army coming too close to camp."

"A middle ground, then," Ryndel suggested. "Perhaps _here_…" He pointed again, and once more Peter nodded.

"But we should have a second flank," he said, "to stay behind a bit. They can catch stragglers that get through."

Ryndel nodded once slowly, approving. "And there should also be another section," he said, moving the small wooden figure across the map. "To the right. Then we can take them from the side, as well…"

Guided by the centaurs, who were well versed in battle and the art of war, Peter stayed near that tent for nearly an hour, never once moving even to sit down. Only once did he pause, when the five of them saw a group of disgruntled dwarves approaching. Looking up, Peter asked simply, "Oreius, please…"

Understanding, the large centaur moved to intercept the dwarves before they could disturb the High King. Peter was supremely determined to have the battle laid out before his eyes today—before dark, even—and when Bardane, the other centaur, suggested that perhaps they could wait until tomorrow to finish, Peter objected.

"Tonight," he said firmly. "It's got to be done by tonight."

Edmund, meanwhile, was feeling completely useless. Though he had remained here faithfully for an hour—Peter had insisted that he stay—he could not see what good he was doing. He had the impression that Peter had only asked him to be nice, and while Edmund appreciated the gesture, it didn't make him feel very good.

The map had started to swim before his eyes, he was so tired of looking at it. Yes, it had been very polite of Peter to do such a kind thing for his worthless little brother, but Edmund didn't know anything about fighting, about battles or victory or defeat. His only experience of war had been the same as Peter's: laying in bed at night, fearfully uncertain, with his head buried under his pillow in the pitch-black as he heard the bombs echo outside his window, waiting, always waiting for something to happen, and praying to God that it wouldn't.

It was those cursed planes that he remembered. Those planes, flying above them in such perfect lines, dropping little packages of death to the terrified populace below. Sitting at the window, sometimes even before they heard it on the radio, Peter would shout, "They're back!"—he always did have the best hearing of anybody in the family—and Edmund's world would dissolve into a frantic rush of darkness and panic.

Where was the torch, where had they left the torch? Somebody grab something to eat, last time they had been in the shelter for hours and hours. And then run, run as fast as you could, and pray again that nothing came down from the sky before you made it. That was all Edmund knew about war.

Beside him, Peter and Ryndel and Bardane spoke in low tones. Edmund hastened to pay attention.

"Her army is greater than ours," Bardane was saying. "There is no denying that."

"But Narnians have heart," Peter insisted. "The Witch's creatures are enslaved by her."

"That does not decrease their strength," Bardane pointed out. "A scouting mission, perhaps—"

"It could not make a large enough dent in their number," objected Ryndel.

"What are those things called?" asked Edmund suddenly. Three pairs of eyes turned instantly to him. "The flying things?"

Peter looked at him askance. "Birds, I think…"

"I'm not that much of an idiot," Edmund said in a wounded tone. "I mean those big things, sort of like eagles but with tails."

Peter, as though realizing that he didn't know the answer to this question either, looked at Ryndel, who appeared to understand.

"Does your Majesty mean the gryphons?" he asked. Edmund said he supposed so.

"Couldn't we use them, though?" he asked. "Peter, like the bombs—don't we have something we could do like that?"

His elder brother frowned, then comprehension dawned on his face. "But they don't have bombs here," he said immediately.

"Well, not bombs then," Edmund said. "What about rocks? They could carry rocks, couldn't they? If they dropped them on the Witch's army, she couldn't do anything about it."

For the first time since Peter had emerged from the tent earlier that day, a real smile spread across his face. "Ed, you're a genius," he said sincerely. Edmund seriously doubted this, but Peter swiftly changed the map around to incorporate his brother's idea.

Dusk was beginning to fall over Aslan's camp, rays of dying sunlight shining through the trees and landing on four solemn faces. With a little sigh, Peter tapped the map with a gesture of finality.

"We can use this," he said to the centaurs. "Prepare the army for battle; let them know what they will be doing and where they will be positioned."

"As you wish, Sire," said Ryndel, bowing low before he and Bardane galloped off into the rest of the camp. Peter watched them until they disappeared around a tent. Edmund was still looking at the map.

"Ed," said Peter suddenly, "Will you go for a walk with me?"

Edmund's eyebrows shot up as he looked at his brother, but Peter appeared serious. Slowly, Edmund nodded.

"All right," he said. They began walking toward the forest at each other's sides. Edmund had no idea what Peter was planning with this; it was rare, if ever, that he and Peter talked seriously and alone. The prospect, Edmund had to admit, made him only a little nervous.

At first, they walked in silence, until they reached the forest path and entered into that area of dappled green and gold, trees bent as if in greeting. Then Peter spoke. "That was a really good idea you had, back there," he said. Edmund, unused to praise from his elder brother, ducked his head embarrassedly.

"It wasn't that good," he mumbled. "You were the one who came up with everything else."

"But I had help," Peter said earnestly, "and you came up with that on your own." Edmund said nothing, and for a few more moments, there was only the sound of their boots on the packed dirt. Beside him, he heard Peter take a nervous breath. "Look, Ed—do you remember that fight we had before we came here?"

"Which one?" replied Edmund, with a little laugh.

"When Lucy came out of the wardrobe that first time, and none of us believed her," Peter reminded him. "I got mad at you for making that joke, and then you yelled at me…"

"Yeah, I remember," said Edmund shortly, beginning to feel a bit sullen. Was this what Peter wanted to talk about? 'Remember all those other times you screwed up, Ed?'

Peter seemed to be struggling to speak. "Well, I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm really sorry about that. I bossed you around a lot, didn't I?"

Edmund wasn't sure what to say. "Well, yeah…sort of," he admitted uncomfortably. "But that's all right."

"I know I tried to be Dad when he was gone," said Peter softly. "But I never did a very good job of it. You—you were always more like Dad than I was." He laughed quietly. "You even look like him."

That, at least, was true. Edmund had inherited his father's dark hair and eyes, while Peter had taken after their light-haired mother.

"I'm not really like him, though," mumbled Edmund, and he knew it was the truth. To his surprise, however, Peter stopped dead in the middle of the path and turned to him. Edmund looked up at him, surprised.

"Yes, you are," said Peter. There was a strange urgency in his voice that Edmund had never heard before. "Ed, you could take care of the family just as well as I could, if anything ever happened to Dad—better than me. You could do that, I know you could."

"But what about you?" Edmund asked, bewildered. "You're older than me—Mum trusts you."

Peter closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "There's the battle coming," he said, his voice uncertain. "If something happened to me…"

A chill ran suddenly into Edmund's stomach. He had forgotten that somewhere between war and victory, there must always come deaths. Then he relaxed.

"But nothing's going to happen to you," he said, grinning. "Remember? Aslan's coming back for the battle. He wouldn't let any of us get killed. They need us, remember?"

The sunlight passed over Peter's face, and as it did so, Edmund thought he saw his brother's cheeks pale. "Yes," said Peter heavily. "All of us."

Without warning, Peter bent abruptly. Before Edmund realized what he was doing, Peter had wrapped his arms around his brother, holding him so tightly that Edmund could hardly breathe. Had Peter ever been daft enough to do such a thing anytime before now, Edmund would have shoved him away as fast as he could—but now, in the quiet of the forest, Edmund found himself overwhelmed with a sense that this was far bigger than he knew. He stood very still until Peter pulled back, biting his lip. He seemed to be searching for something to say, grasping for phrases that remained elusive.

"I—I'm sorry," he said again, but Edmund did not know for what. They were words that had already been said, words that no longer had any meaning in themselves. It was the sort of thing you said when other things simply could not be spoken, for whatever reason.

They turned then, and walked back to camp in silence.

* * *

Darkness was beginning to fall now; Edmund and Peter made their way to the tent they shared. For now, Edmund had no clothes other than the ones on his back, which were filthy, so he climbed into the hammock still wearing them. Peter, sitting on his own hammock until now, stood and, turning his back to Edmund, began to undress. In the fading light, Edmund could see small, angry marks of red on Peter's skin. 

"What happened to your shoulder?" he asked, in a quiet voice. Peter spared the bruises only a cursory glance.

"Nothing," he said shortly, pulling on a Narnian tunic. "Night, Ed." And without another word, he flopped into bed and closed his eyes.

Edmund hadn't expected to be able to sleep at all, with the day's events in his mind. The Witch's cruel face, unshakably calm, still hovered before his eyes, and he still didn't understand Peter's strange behavior. But with only a little concentration, he could make himself remember the warm lion breath upon his face, and within moments, he could feel himself slipping into soft, thoughtless sleep.

After such a feeling, Edmund would not have thought to wake again until morning. When next he opened his eyes, however, it was still night, and probably only a few hours later than when he had gone to sleep. Whatever noise had awoken him, he did not hear it now. But just when he shut his eyes again, to try and sleep once more, he heard another noise. Carefully, so as not to wake Peter, Edmund raised his head slightly and looked around the tent.

He needn't have worried. By the cracks of moonlight streaming from under the tent from every direction, Edmund could see his older brother getting out of bed. Peter moved slowly, in what Edmund assumed was an attempt to not wake him. Edmund almost spoke, to tell Peter that he was already awake and he didn't need to be so careful—but something stopped him. He kept quiet, watching, his head halfway buried in his pillow so that, if Peter looked this way, he would not be able to tell whether Edmund's eyes were open or closed.

Every move Peter made was one of obvious deliberation. For some inexplicable reason, he took off the tunic he had on already, and pulled from a pile of clothing and chain mail another tunic, this one red. Although Peter still had his back turned partly to his brother, Edmund saw a flash of gold on the front of Peter's shirt—the lion.

He looked once around the tent; his eyes rested for a moment on Edmund, but Edmund himself could not see Peter's face very clearly, and so could not guess as to what was going through his brother's mind when he did that. After a very tense moment, Peter walked out of the tent. Immediately, Edmund slid out of his hammock, listening for the sound of Peter's footsteps.

As soon as they had faded enough so that he knew Peter would not be able to see him, he exited the tent as well. He saw a quick flash of red disappear into the trees, along the same path which they had walked earlier, but did not follow it. Instead, he ran to the girls' tent, as quickly as he could.

"Sue!" he hissed as soon as he burst in. "Susan, wake up!" He grabbed at the sleeping figure closest to him—why did the girls get beds and the boys hammocks?—and shook it.

"Ed?" asked a quizzical, very sleepy voice from underneath the blanket in his hands. He had woken Lucy.

"What are you doing, Ed?" moaned Susan, from the other side of the room. "It's almost midnight."

"I think something's wrong with Peter," said Edmund urgently. "He just left our tent."

Susan made a breathy, irritated noise. "He went for a walk," she said. "Go away."

"Something's wrong with him!" Edmund insisted. "I think we should follow him." Sensing he wasn't getting much in the way of an enthusiastic reaction, he said, "Come on, we have to hurry!"

"Sue, what if something _is_ wrong with Peter?" Lucy questioned, sounding a bit more alert. "We should go talk to him."

"Nothing's wrong!" Susan snapped. "Go to bed, both of you."

"I'm not leaving until you come!" Edmund shot back. "I'll sit here all night if I bloody have to!"

That got Susan's attention. She propped herself up on her elbows and said crossly, "Mum told you never to—"

"Oh, will you come _on_?" Edmund pleaded.

"I'll go," volunteered Lucy suddenly, standing up. Susan looked from one of them to the other, appearing very bad-tempered indeed.

"Fine," she growled. "Not as if I could get back to sleep now, anyway…"

"Hurry!" Edmund urged them again. Lucy grabbed her cloak and shoes; Susan followed suit, with a bit less energy. Edmund, who didn't have either, spared a moment for a wish that he did, and then led the girls up the path he and Peter had taken earlier.

The girls were talking in breathy whispers behind him as they went; Edmund shushed them, and it only made Susan more irritable.

"Look, we'll just run up there, talk to Peter, find out nothing's wrong, and come back," she hissed. "I don't see why we have to be _quiet_!"

Edmund couldn't explain it to her, so he didn't say anything at all. Susan muttered something under her breath that was certainly not complimentary, but held her tongue after that.

They passed the place where Peter had hugged Edmund, and from there Edmund was on unfamiliar ground. It wasn't really a problem—after all, there was only one way to go—but then the path forked.

"Which way did he go?" asked Lucy. Edmund frowned.

"I dunno," he said. Susan rolled her eyes.

"Oh, let's just—" she began, but already Edmund had taken the left-hand path, and Lucy, with no extra information on her side, followed him willingly.

The three of them walked for perhaps ten more minutes. Suddenly, Edmund stopped in the middle of the path. Ahead, through the mass of branches and trunks, he had seen a red glow. Had Peter built a fire?

"Come on," he said, speeding up. "I think we're on the right track."

Lucy matched his pace; even Susan could not help getting caught up a bit in the spirit. They ran forward, perhaps a hundred feet or so. Then abruptly, they stopped again. They had come to the end of the forest. Three breaths caught in three throats—the sight before them was nothing like they one they had expected.

They had thought that the ground would remain level here, as it had done until now. Instead, below their feet was an earthen ledge, overhanging a place shrouded halfway with trees and the other half by sharp hills. The children knew instantly that, had they taken the right-hand path, they would have come out exactly where they were looking now, and they could not have been more thankful for Edmund's choice.

For the clearing beneath them was not empty—there stood in its center a large block of stone, as wide and as long as Peter and Edmund's tent, raised from the ground three or four feet, with short stairs reaching up to it. Immense pillars, also of stone, had been erected around what must have been the Stone Table, casting long shadows over the ground.

But it was not the moonlight that made these shadows—it was the light of dozens of torches, held in the hands of a swarm of creatures so horrible that Lucy, upon first seeing them, shut her eyes instinctively. Edmund and Susan wanted to do the same—the creatures upon whose backs the Witch had rode earlier that day were nothing compared to this. These were monsters, in every shape and form possible, and although the poor children knew none of their names, it was not difficult to see that these were beings of darkness such as they had never known existed.

On the Stone Table itself stood the White Witch, mistress of all this evil. Her gown was black, and in her hands this time was not her wand, but rather a long, black knife, carved also of some cruel stone. Her face was frightful to look upon.

The air was filled with a cacophony of cackles and shrieks, screams of pain or delight. Those things were shoving each other wildly; those who held the torches took occasional pleasure in waving them dangerously close to another's face. The clearing seemed too small for such an overflow of darkness; one got the impression that it must bubble over soon, like a pot filled to the brim with something it cannot hold any longer.

But despite this wicked insanity, the noise itself was muted. This meeting in itself was not the source of the creatures' joy, Edmund realized suddenly. The Witch was here for a reason. They were waiting for something…something… And just when he had slowly begun to realize what must be happening, Lucy let out a noise that was caught somewhere between a whimper and shriek. Fortunately, no one below seemed to hear it.

Unable to speak, Lucy only pointed. Susan and Edmund followed the path of her finger. There, only having just walked out of the trees and into the Stone Table's clearing, was a figure dressed in red, firelight flickering off the gold on his chest. It was Peter.


	3. Chapter 3

They were, apparently, the first to notice him. For a few moments more, the creatures continued their mad sort of dance around the Table—then the Witch's eyes flicked upward, and she saw the figure standing there, across the clearing. Amidst the furious mass of hideous apes and dwarves, ogres and Hags, it seemed painfully obvious that Peter was alone against them all. 

The Witch threw back her head and gave a laugh. It was a laugh of passionate, wild joy, worlds different from any laugh the children had ever heard, and the noise sent chills running down Edmund's spine. The creatures below looked up at her, startled out of their frenzy, and then, one by one, they slowly turned to see Peter walking slowly toward them, on the pathway to the Stone Table.

"Oh, what is he doing?" Susan whimpered. "He'll get himself _killed_; why doesn't he run?"

"Look!" cried the Witch fiercely. "Look, the mighty King has come!"

A howl erupted from the Witch's creatures, of laughter and surprise, grating harshly against the children's ears. It was a terrible, leering noise, but Peter did not hesitate.

Edmund's heart was in his throat. What purpose could Peter possible serve by this, walking willingly into this dark mob, straight into the Witch's hands? Desperately he thought back to the morning before, when her demands had been so clear. "Unless I am appeased" … "your brother's blood", and Peter's uselessly brave challenge, in defense of his little brother.

He was walking through the crowd now, which, for some reason, allowed him to move unhindered. The Witch watched him levelly, a look of cruel triumph on her face. In what was almost the same instant, two things happened at once: the Witch shrieked suddenly, over the roar of her minions, "Take him!", and Edmund understood everything. He gripped the low-hanging branch before them, so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his flesh scraped against the bark. He wanted to cry.

The roar grew louder at the command. Peter looked about him, startled, as though he had realized for the first time where he was, and it was then that the butt of an ogre's axe slammed into the side of his head. He went sprawling, skidding limply across the stones of the walkway, and was still.

Lucy screamed, loud and hard, but before barely a sound had come from her throat, Edmund clapped his hand to her mouth and pulled her down to the ground.

"Be quiet!" he hissed frantically, bending over her. "Be quiet!"

Lucy, like Edmund, had managed to understand the reason it was Peter down there now, instead of anyone else, but the nobility of Peter's actions was lost on her. She saw only Peter where Edmund ought to have been, and Edmund desperate not to be seen. Poor Lucy could think nothing but that this was what Edmund wanted: to have his brother die, rather than himself.

"You beast!" she whispered furiously, tears running out of the corners of her eyes as she lay in the dirt. "You horrible—horrible—!"

"Lucy, please hush!" Edmund begged.

"Oh!" gasped Susan. Edmund scrambled off Lucy, who was still crying, and peered over the ledge again.

As though the Witch's cry had been a password, her creatures fell immediately upon Peter with a vengeance. No sooner had he managed to shakily push himself up to one knee than he was thrown down again. Peter could do nothing but cover his face as the blows rained down upon him, cries of fiendish glee pouring into his ears. A particularly vicious kick caught him in the stomach, and somehow Edmund heard his brother's cry.

Hands were groping at him from all directions, thrust into the mass by those who could not make it all the way through the crowd. That same crimson caught Edmund's eye—the tunic had been torn from Peter's back, and now was thrown through the air to land in the midst of those creatures. That beautiful gold lion, proudly rearing on its hind legs better to attack, lasted only the quickest moment before it was torn to shreds. They fluttered uselessly to the ground amidst the sounds of Peter's anguished but muffled cries.

All the while the Witch had looked on without a sound, licking her lips as though she could taste the blood she would spill. Now she opened her mouth and spoke, cold mockery pouring forth from her lips. "How now, Son of Adam? Where is your crown?"

Peter managed to raise his bloodied head and meet her gaze. Yet a moment later Edmund saw him falter as his strength seemed to fail, and he dropped his head again.

"Let us show the great High King how worthy is his station!" cried the Witch.

Two Minotaurs roughly hauled Peter to his feet, and Edmund was amazed to see his brother, always the strongest of the children, barely remaining standing on shaking legs. From behind Jadis, a winged ghoul came bearing something long and cruel and black.

"Have your way with him," the Witch commanded, taking the whip from the ghoul and handing it to the largest Minotaur.

The creature gave a deep and resonating bellow, raising its fists to shake them at the sky, and then turned abruptly on Peter and began violently slashing at his bare back with its weapon. The first strike threw Peter to his hands and knees as the whip tore into his flesh. It was not just a length of cord, Edmund could see—although he could barely force himself to look—but it was braided with small, sharp things that glimmered when the Minotaur flung it up into the air before each blow: shards of glass. Then it came down on his brother's back again, and Peter cried out, and it came down again, and Peter screamed, and the next time it came up the light of the torches reflected red on the bits of glass.

Just when Edmund was certain, however, that Peter could not withstand another blow, the Witch cried, "Enough! Bind him!"

Either the monsters did not hear her or did not care, caught as they were in their mad performance of torment. The Witch shouted again, "Enough, I say! Bind him and bring him to me!"

Fear of their mistress won over their desire for blood; the Minotaur flung down its whip, stained bloody by now, and gave one savage kick to Peter's trembling body. Peter collapsed. From somewhere nearby two Hags brought forward ropes, and, cackling, they bound his ankles and wrists, cruelly pulling the ropes tight, so that he could not have moved of his own volition even if he had been completely undamaged.

Grabbing hold of the bonds around Peter's ankles, the Hags dragged him forward along the rough stone. Even from this distance, Edmund could see his brother's face contorting with pain, his eyes shut tightly. With a visible effort, the Hags heaved him up onto the Stone Table; Peter's head thudded dully against the step, and he, to Edmund's abject horror, went limp. The Hags carried him only a few more inches, then dropped him at the Witch's feet.

At last, the torture seemed over. The cries of the monsters had quieted to a dull roar, and still the Witch had not moved from her place on the Table. Peter lay before her, prone and bloody and pitifully vulnerable, but—Edmund's lips breathed a prayer of thankfulness as he saw Peter's eyes flicker upward to fix on the Witch's face—not unconscious, not dead.

With one large, sharp gesture of her arm, the Witch silenced the mass. Moving deliberately, she knelt down, brushing her hand against the rope at Peter's wrists as he lay on his side, as though emphasizing the fact that he could not get free.

"A King above all kings in Narnia," she remarked, almost conversationally. Despite the distance, her voice came quite clearly to Edmund, projected, perhaps, out of a desire to have the entire crowd present hear Peter mocked and scorned.

The Witch looked Peter in the eyes, and he averted his gaze sorrowfully. "The only king of Narnia right now is a scared, selfish little boy, sleeping far away in a tent in Aslan's camp and not caring what is about to happen. And he will not remain on his throne for long. Oh yes," she said mockingly, as Peter turned his eyes on her with an expression of shock, "yes, it is true. Did you really think that by all this you would save the human traitor? You poor child," she crooned maliciously. "You have lost. Your sacrifice appeases the Dark Magic, as we agreed, but then what is there to keep me from taking your brother's life as well? You are giving me your life…and saving no one."

The look in the White Witch's eyes was of utmost triumph. She gave a little laugh. "Hm. So much for love. Tomorrow, we wage war against Narnia—and without four Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, what chance can Aslan have?"

There was a look on Peter's face that Edmund had never seen before. He looked sad, but it was a sort of sadness that his brother could not recognize. It was as though Peter had somehow grown years older in just a few minutes—had this nightmare only lasted that long? That face was still Peter's, but a different Peter than Edmund had ever known.

The Witch straightened, looked about her at what was only a fraction of her army. "Tonight," she cried, "the Deep Magic will be appeased! And tomorrow—" She waited, as howls and shrieks of furious agreement rose to the sky. Her voice grew in strength, blending with her monsters' voices and yet rising above them. "Tomorrow we will take Narnia _forever_!"

The noise that followed was deafening, frightening—Susan stuck her fingers in her ears, tears running down her face. "She can't, oh, she _can't_!" Edmund just barely heard her sob. Edmund had not the presence of mind to weep now—he had lost all sense of himself as he knelt awkwardly on the ground, looking down at the scene below him that was too hideous, too fantastic to be real. He had lost himself entirely in it.

Edmund watched so intently that not a thought passed through his head—emotions of such strength as to be able to sacrifice one's life for another were beyond his pitiful, childish grasp. He could not comprehend such feeling; it eluded his understanding. But he knew that it existed, and was almost in awe of it, in awe of the being that could make such a choice. He was in awe of Peter, not of the British schoolboy with whom he had worked lessons on occasion—

Torches were pounding on the ground in a furious, haphazard rhythm, growing ever faster. The Witch brandished her knife, laughing. "In that knowledge," she crowed to Peter, "despair…"

—but of the High King of Narnia, whose face Edmund at last recognized below him.

The Witch's eyes glinted black. "And _DIE!_"

The knife plunged down.

Peter's eyes opened wide with pain and shock as the long blade penetrated first his back and then his heart, and then they dulled, and closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything seemed to blur after that—vaguely, Edmund was aware of the constant noise of Susan's sobs, of Lucy with her face buried in her arms as she lay on the ground, weeping silently as she shook with fear and rage. Edmund himself kept his eyes firmly on the earth below him, not daring to look up because he knew what he would see. But every so often, he could not help himself from sneaking a peek over the ledge, some morbid desire in him wanting to see what his own selfishness had caused, as a sort of punishment. 

Slowly, as though bored, the monsters had begun plodding back into the trees. Their work was done, their entertainment finished, and now they had a battle to fight. _Against us,_ thought Edmund dully, _and without Peter._ The alarm this would have caused him before now faded under the heavy cloud of misery that hung like a shroud Edmund's mind. Like a condemning judge, it weighed each of his thoughts against Peter's death and then discarded them, finding none that could match this numbing catastrophe.

At last, they all had gone, even the Witch herself, striding through the midst of her creatures with regal abandon. Edmund watched her disappear over the low hills, until she and they were out of sight in the darkness. A few feeble torches remained below them, stuck into the ground by those who had better things to do than hold them. It was only these that held off the shadows surrounding the clearing, for it was a moonless, cloudy night.

It was so inconceivable that Peter should be dead that Edmund could not help himself waiting to see his brother move. Wistful thoughts that Peter might suddenly expire had been perfectly all right in the past, because they both knew that it would never happen—yet somehow it had, and it still didn't seem real, didn't seem possible. But that stone knife, reflecting in the firelight, that was painfully real.

"We should go down there," said Edmund suddenly, his voice rough from lack of use, his eyes still on Peter.

Susan's only response was a quiet, muffled noise, but Edmund paid no attention to her or Lucy. Without waiting for their answers, he stood abruptly. His legs were dreadfully stiff—he hadn't moved them for hours—but he ran, regardless, back down the path, until he came to the fork in the path, and took the right-hand one. He stumbled quite a few times.

When at last he reached the clearing below, Edmund hesitated a moment, desperately trying to muster up the courage to walk over to where Peter's body lay. Somehow, the sight seemed more awful from down here. After a few short seconds of indecisiveness, however, he made himself walk forward, on the same path that Peter himself had perhaps an hour ago. There were, Edmund noticed, spots and streaks of dark vermillion on the stone; he skirted these gingerly, biting down on his lip with fists clenched at his sides, until he reached the Table. He clambered up onto it, and sank to his knees beside the body.

There was so much _blood_. It coated everything; it was smeared across Peter's skin like some macabre decoration. Edmund reached out a hesitant hand to touch Peter's dead face, but drew it back, afraid.

Behind him, he heard footsteps on the rock pathway. "Don't look, Lucy," Susan commanded, another sob catching in her throat as she spoke. Lucy, not caring for this protection, jerked her arm out of Susan's and ran forward to the Stone Table. But she, like Edmund, could not bear to touch him.

Susan came forward finally, fingers working nervously in the material of her dress. "Oh, somebody get rid of that horrid thing!" she burst out at last. Edmund assumed that she meant the dagger, but it was a task easier said than done. The three of them looked uselessly at one another for a moment—then, with a deep breath, as though preparing himself to go underwater, Edmund reached out and wrapped his hand around the knife guard.

That wasn't even the worst part; with a horrible sucking sound, Edmund wrenched the dagger from Peter's body. No sooner had he done so than he realized what he now held, and the thought caused him to shudder. He threw it hastily off the Stone Table, watched it slide to a halt amidst the dirt and fallen leaves, and wiped his hands worriedly on his pants.

Wordlessly, Lucy pulled the cloak from her shoulders and laid it over Peter's shoulders, effectively hiding the stab wound and the worst of the whip's blows. It was a relief to all of them, but it did not erase the fact that lay before them.

With this covering, the children gained a bit more courage. Emboldened, Susan touched his cheek with the corner of her cloak. "Could we—do you think we could wipe some of that off?" she asked, her voice still a bit shaky. It was utterly like Susan to be so pragmatic at a time like this, but for once Edmund and Lucy were glad of it.

Gingerly, they wiped the blood from Peter's face and neck as best they could. It was a silent, hurried task—only once did Susan speak, in a very low voice. "Did you see his face?" she asked Edmund hesitantly, not looking at him. "Just at the end?"

He nodded wordlessly; Susan bit her lip and, reaching out, brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen over Peter's eyes. It was such a hopeless gesture, akin to tossing a single pebble into a raging current and expecting the current to halt, that Edmund once again felt an ache in his throat. It was not easy to forget that, but for perhaps a single word, it would have been him lying there, battered and bloodied and dead.

_He loved me._ What Edmund had never really believed true before now was suddenly forced before his eyes. The fact had never before seemed so obvious, so boundlessly important, or so terrible.

At long last, only the faintest messy streaks of crimson remained on Peter's face. It was Lucy who took the initiative in the next step, inching her way on her knees over to the other side of Peter's body and bravely fumbling at the cords around his wrists. Edmund moved to help her, but she shook him off. Thinking he knew the reason for Lucy's anger, Edmund meekly went to aid Susan in freeing Peter's legs.

It was a slow, beastly business. Their fingers were stiff and clumsy, and more than once a surprised noise of pain could be heard as someone jammed a fingernail into their hand by mistake. But it gave the children a sort of peace of mind—and also, there was nothing else for them to do. They could not leave Peter here, and they could not take him back to camp, at least not now.

Just when they had almost finished—there was only one strand left around Peter's red and bruised wrists, Lucy struggling to untwist it—as one the children heard a rustling in the trees behind them. They looked up, startled, then at each other; they could not have been any more defenseless than they were now. Tentatively, Edmund stood, and walked down the steps of the Stone Table, motioning for the girls to stay where they were.

"Who's there?" he demanded, taking another step forward. The strength in his voice shocked him, and there was anger in it as well. There was nothing he could have done to defend Peter when there was any hope for his brother's life, but now, when it was too late, Edmund stood resolute. "Don't you dare come any closer!"

A voice emerged from the trees, shortly followed by a form. "Your actions are noble, Son of Adam," said the voice, "but there is no longer a need for heroism in this place."

All three of them recognized the voice at once, but it was Lucy who derived any real joy from it. With an odd cry, she ran off the Stone Table and hurried forward toward the great lion. Without thinking, she threw her arms around Aslan's neck, pressing her face to his cheek, and he did not seem to disapprove.

With quick footsteps, Susan followed Lucy down to Aslan, although she refrained from embracing him as Lucy did. Edmund, having come this far already, stayed where he was. He had some dim idea that, if he got too close to Aslan and the lion looked into his eyes, he might shrivel up and die of guilt and shame.

For a moment, none of them said anything. Lucy had drawn back, still on her knees, and she was crying again. Aslan bent his great head and gently touched her face with his, murmuring hidden words of comfort that the other two could not hear. At length, Lucy gave a vague nod and stood.

"Where is the High King?" asked Aslan firstly.

"He—he's over there," said Susan, pointing behind her. Her voice was very tight, sounding as if it would break, and on the very last syllable that she spoke, it did. "Sir, he's _dead_."

"I know," said Aslan softly. In those two words there was such a world of understanding and grief that one might have thought his own brother had died. Without another word, he walked forward on enormous paws toward the Stone Table. Susan, Edmund and Lucy followed, as they sensed they were supposed to do.

Silently, Aslan padded up the steps. He extended a paw, and without warning, five deadly sharp claws emerged from it. But these terrible weapons he used only to slice through the last cord at Peter's hands, and then they were gone again.

He turned to the children once more; Susan had one arm around Lucy's shoulders, as though to comfort her, but her face was working furiously, and Edmund knew she was on the verge of tears once again. Aslan, seeing this, moved toward her.

"Susan," he said, "There is no need to be afraid."

"I know," gulped Susan miserably. "But…" Her voice trailed off into silence.

"You must be brave," Aslan told her gently. "Peter's sacrifice was a king's choice. Grieve for him, but accept it."

Susan nodded half-heartedly, still looking weepy. Aslan touched her face with his. "Be brave, Susan," he repeated, and that touch seemed to reassure her. "Narnia's queens do not give in so easily to defeat."

He turned to face Edmund, but Edmund flinched away. "I know," he whispered into the silence. "I know what you're going to say." Never before in his life had he felt such crushing misery.

"Do you?" asked Aslan. His voice was so low that it was almost a growl, but it was not unkind. Before Edmund could answer, though, he heard another voice, and it was so different from anything she had ever said before that it was a moment before he realized it was, in fact, Lucy.

"Yes, he does," she said furiously, with that expression on her face that meant she was so outraged she was about to cry. Susan grabbed for her arm, but Lucy shoved her away with a shriek of anger. "How could you, Edmund, how _could_ you? You killed him, you killed _Peter_—!"

"I didn't!" Edmund said hoarsely.

"Peace, Lucy," said Aslan sternly, looking at her. "You must not be so cruel." With an obvious effort, Lucy subsided.

"I didn't mean—I never wanted anyone to get hurt," Edmund choked out, his throat burning. "Not Peter, I never knew—not Peter—" Aslan's eyes upon him never wavered in their steady, penetrating stare, as though they could see straight into Edmund' s filthy soul, and he cringed at the thought. Blinking furiously, Edmund forced himself to meet Aslan's gaze. "Please, Aslan, it wasn't—it wasn't my fault…"

Aslan made no pretensions, but there was a sadness in his voice as he replied. "It was, dear heart."

At that, everything fell apart. Edmund felt the sobs bursting from his throat as he fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks. His hands reached out blindly, touched a sea of warm, soft, golden fur, and he buried his face in it. Words failed him—the weight of everything he had done seemed to be grabbing at him, pulling him down into the depths of the earth, and over everything there hung the awful, undeniable truth that Peter was dead.

What Edmund would do without his elder brother, he had no idea. Before now, Peter had been as much an unchangeable part of his life as the color of his eyes or his pale, freckled skin. Now, though, the pillar of strength that Edmund had always taken for granted was gone, and without it he could feel himself teetering dangerously, with nothing to balance him.

"Have faith," Aslan said softly. Edmund could feel the vibrations rumbling in his throat as he spoke. "Peter's death was a good one. He died for you, and for Narnia."

From beyond Edmund's comforting blanket of lion fur, he heard Susan speak. "Then the Witch—she was telling the truth? About the Deep Magic, I mean."

"The Deep Magic," Aslan conceded, "does exist. She would not dare to lie about such a thing. If she had known of the rest of the Emperor's magic, however, she might never have demanded a sacrifice at all, and the Deep Magic need never have been awakened in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

Aslan paused, as though reluctant to speak. "The true meaning of sacrifice," he said finally, "is one that she does not comprehend. The Deep Magic demanded a sacrifice, but the Deeper Magic—written in this very Table, though she cannot read it—declares that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery is killed in a traitor's stead, death itself will turn backwards."

"Death?" Lucy said suddenly. "Then—"

"No, dear heart," said Aslan. He must have known the hope that would arise in her heart. "The Deeper Magic has no place here."

"But Peter never did anything against Narnia—and he _was_ willing!" argued Susan desperately. "We saw him!"

His hands still deep within the mane, Edmund sat back, leaning his head against Aslan's side as he to make sense of it all. Slowly, a thought permeated his brain. "But…he did commit treachery…didn't he?"

"Of course he didn't," said Susan disparagingly.

"But he wasn't—" Edmund hesitated, trying very hard to explain. "Peter wasn't _perfect_."

"It doesn't mean he committed treachery!" Lucy put in sharply. "Not like _you_. He was only human."

"That's what I mean!" Edmund cried. "He _was_ human, and that—that's treachery. That's why…" Sitting back on his heels, he looked up at Aslan with uncertainty in his gaze. "That's why it won't work."

A tiny, sad lion-smile played at the edges of Aslan's mouth, like a parent watching his children play. "You are right, dear one," he said softly. "The Deeper Magic has no hold on Peter."

"Oh…" Susan moaned again. Already Aslan's strength seemed to have deserted her.

There was nothing else any of them could say. There was Peter on the ground; there was Aslan with Edmund clinging to his mane like a child. There were Susan and Lucy holding each other, all with their eyes upon Peter's body. Any words beyond that would have been useless and empty.

At last, Aslan shifted, muscles rippling under his coat of fur. Edmund released his hold, and Aslan turned to the three of them.

"The sun will rise soon," he said. "It is time for you to return to camp."

"What?" said Lucy, bewildered. "All of us?"

"We can't just leave him like this!" Susan protested. Edmund said nothing.

"The Witch will attack soon," Aslan said firmly. "No sense of honor forces her to keep her word, and she will do her best to ascertain that all of you are destroyed. Susan, you must take your place with archers. Edmund, you will lead my army now in Peter's stead."

He should have been terrified at this thought, but the thought that revolted him was not leading an army, but what he would be leaving behind while he did it.

"We're not leaving Peter," he said, his voice strong for the first time all night. "We can't!"

"_Edmund._"

Edmund bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "But we just can't leave him here!"

"Do you trust me, Edmund?" asked Aslan. He could not answer that.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"It is time for you to go," Aslan repeated.

They could not argue any longer. Susan held out a hand. "Come on, Lucy," she said resignedly. But Lucy shook her head vehemently.

"Oh, please, Aslan," she begged, "You couldn't send me back! Peter wouldn't even let me fight."

Aslan hesitated—he seemed to be thinking. "Very well," he said at last. "Susan and Edmund, you will want to return as soon as possible. By now, you will have been missed."

Biting her lip, Susan nodded. Together with Edmund, she walked slowly back up the path into the forest. Edmund kept very silent—beside him, he could hear Susan crying again.

After a few minutes of walking, they came out at the camp again. Edmund could see centaur outlines moving swiftly around the tents against the starlight. One of them turned and saw him and Susan, and galloped toward them.

"Your Majesties!" he said breathlessly. It was Ryndel, and there was great relief in his voice. "We only just noticed that you were gone." It was then that he noticed there were only two of them. "Where are King Peter and Queen Lucy?"

Edmund took a breath, thankful it was dark and their tear-stained faces were, for the most part, hidden. "We left Lucy back there a bit," he said. Surprisingly enough, his voice remained steady. "She'll be back soon."

"And the High King?" asked Ryndel.

Edmund swallowed. "He's gone to be with Aslan."


	5. Chapter 5

They retreated to the girls' tent, Susan sitting on her bed, Edmund leaning against the tent pole as he knelt on the ground. He felt hot and sick—he pressed a clammy palm to his forehead, closing his eyes in despair.

"What do we do now?" asked Susan into the silence, in a very small voice.

"You heard what Aslan said," Edmund said dully. "You'll fight with the archers. I'll ride at the head."

"No, no," Susan moaned, her head sinking heavily into her hands. "We can't do this. Ed, we've got to go back up there, tell Aslan—"

"He knows what he's doing," said Edmund, more harshly than he meant. The thought of death had lost its inherent impossibility, now that he had seen what had happened to Peter, and yet somehow Edmund was not frightened at the prospect. Perhaps he would be killed—perhaps he would survive. It didn't really seem to matter either way.

"You know what this means," Susan said abruptly, after there had been a silence. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but Edmund couldn't find the right answer. There were a million things he could have said in reply, but he didn't know which she expected. Susan pursed her lips.

"The prophecy," she said at last. "'Two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve,' they said. That was meant to be us. It had to be."

"So?"

"Well," said Susan softly, "There are only three of us, now."

And then it came rolling over Edmund with a great, earth-shattering thud. His first dazed thought was that Peter had destroyed Narnia, try as he might have done to save it. But no, that wasn't it, for hadn't Peter died in place of Edmund?

No matter how he struggled, doing mental gymnastics that would have put Greece's ancient philosophers to shame, there was no getting around the fact that when Edmund had opened his mouth, shoved it full of Turkish Delight and promised to return with Peter and the girls, he had damned Narnia as surely as if he had seen it burn before his eyes. A sleigh ride, a few poisonous words, powdered sugar—was that all it took to bring about the downfall of a world?

There was a fluttering at the canvas flap that served for a door, and then Ryndel entered. "My Lord," he said, "I don't wish to disturb you…"

"No—no, it's fine," said Edmund, not standing.

"Your armor was completed while you were gone," Ryndel explained. "If it is fitted now, then it will be ready for the battle in the morning."

At last then, Edmund pushed himself to his feet. "Do the archers have armor, too?" he asked. Ryndel glanced at Susan, who raised her head to look at him questioningly.

"Do not fear, my Queen," he said. "We will ensure your protection. Narnia would not dare lose you." He then led Edmund out of the tent and into the darkness. The dwarves had set up a sort of temporary smithy, and all throughout the previous day the sounds of metal ringing against metal could be heard as the kings' armor was prepared.

Ryndel led him inside this tent, where two short, stumpy dwarves with long, bristly brown beards stood. Upon Edmund's entrance, they each gave a hasty, awkward bow.

"Your Highness," one said in a rough voice, "We've got your armor here." He pulled from a chest behind him chain mail, of the kind that Edmund had seen Peter wearing earlier. There were also guards for his arms and legs, and as Edmund reached for the set, the dwarf reached behind him again and took from the chest a long scabbard. A sword hilt peeked out from inside it, a deep, cobalt-blue gem shining in its center like a single eye.

"There weren't time to make you one o' your own," the dwarf said apologetically, "but this'll fit you right."

"I—thank you," said Edmund. He took this from the dwarf's calloused hands as well, and then was handed something else, something soft and red and entirely different from the cold metal already in his grasp. Edmund unfolded the cloth, to see that same gold lion looking back at him, and he almost dropped the tunic. It was impossible not to remember an identical lion being ripped to pieces, and the look on Peter's face when it had happened. He had changed clothes, purposefully gone to his death as Aslan's knight—for bravery, or to spite the Witch in his last few moments? Why?

"Thank you," Edmund said again, his voice hoarse. The dwarves were watching expectantly, and suddenly Edmund remembered that he was supposed to try it on. Hastily, he pulled his own shirt over his head—he was glad to get rid of it, dirty as it was—and dressed in the Narnian tunic. It felt soft against his skin, and all Edmund could think was, _This was what Peter wore when they killed him_. "They" was not so much the Witch herself, nor her creatures, but simply the evil that was personified in her and in the beasts that she commanded.

With some much-needed assistance, he was able to don the armor, as well. It was heavy and stiff, covering every vulnerable inch of skin from the neck down, but even Edmund could feel that this was better armor than he ever would have found in our world, had he thought to look.

He took the scabbard clumsily in his left hand, and then unsheathed the sword with his other. Despite his awkward movements, the blade looked kingly in his hand as he held it. It was not as heavy as the one he had used earlier, with Peter. A shield was pressed into his free hand, and he clenched his fist around it. A helmet was placed on his head—Edmund was beginning to feel the strain of all this metal, in his knees and arms especially.

The dwarfs surveyed him with critical eyes. "Needs be larger in the neck," commented one to the other, and there was a nod of agreement. "How does that feel?"

Edmund thought the helmet was a bit too tight, and said as much, but the dwarves shook their heads, their expressions amused and indulgent of one who knew very little about battle. "Any looser," it was explained to him, "and it'd fall right off, and then where'd you be, Your Highness?"

As quick as everything had been put on it was taken off again, and the dwarves set to work on the mail. Edmund made to go, but Ryndel, still standing behind him, spoke up. "You might as well stay, my King," he said, speaking over the noise of the hammers. "They will be finished shortly—there would be no point in going back to your tent for only a few moments."

Edmund nodded dumbly, and turned again to watch. No voices were heard for a minute, and then Ryndel spoke again.

"For as long as the centaurs have existed, we have read the stars," he said softly. "We learn their secrets, or at least what they deign to teach us." He looked down at Edmund, who glanced up at him over his shoulder. "I consulted my art concerning our campaign against the Witch, and especially the battle that is to take place."

Edmund wasn't certain of what to say, whether this was important to him or whether he should simply listen in order to be polite, or even whether or not he should speak at all. "And…what did they say?" he asked eventually. Ryndel's voice held such reverence, though, that he wondered even if the centaur would think it right to explain such a thing to him.

Ryndel seemed to possess no such reluctance, however. "The stars told a mixed message," he said, a bemused tone in his voice. "They told of great tragedy, of death and sacrifice. Such things are common when war is near, but it was disturbing, all the same. But the stars carried hope with them, too—hope for Narnia, and a hope of victory. The Witch's numbers are great indeed, but the heavens do not lie."

"Oh," said Edmund. It was all he could think of.

_Tragedy,_ he thought, gazing without seeing at the anvil and the dwarves' twin hammers, ringing in perfect time with each other as they moved over the roiling flames. _Death, and sacrifice._ All had already come to pass. 'The heavens do not lie,' Ryndel said, but Peter was dead, and with him, all of Narnia. Where was the hope in that?

_He must have known,_ Edmund admitted to himself, for although he had toyed with the notion on several occasions previously, Peter was not stupid. He _must_ have known that Narnia would lose one of its Sons of Adam no matter what choice was made—and yet still Peter had gone in Edmund's stead, gaining nothing but his brother's life.

Something stirred, deep within Edmund's chest, and it was a moment before he recognized it as anger. It felt like years since he had experienced any emotion other than a numb sort of sadness.

The armor was tried on once more, with the neck having been slightly enlarged. Edmund felt no difference, but the dwarves agreed that it was an improvement, and the finished suit was delivered into his hands, along with the sword and shield.

They stepped out into the starlight, Ryndel and Edmund together. Edmund knew he shouldn't leave Susan alone—for that matter, he had no desire to be by himself right now either—but the thought of going back to that dark tent made him shudder.

"Will King Peter and Queen Lucy return for the battle?" asked Ryndel suddenly. Edmund shook his head, wondering if his answer would disappoint. Surely it must—it would be so much easier for everyone to be braver if they had Peter at their head, bold, fearless King Peter. Not the little dark kid who had almost gotten everybody killed.

"Peter won't," he said, with dull certainty. "I don't know about Lucy, but Peter didn't want her to fight anyway. I don't even think Aslan will be there."

Ryndel began to answer, but Edmund did not hear, distracted. His mind was racing through an equation of thoughts that had somehow escaped his notice until now, lost as it was in the bleakness immediately following Peter's death. He began ticking off names in his head. _Peter's gone—Lucy's staying with Aslan—Aslan's got something to do with Peter—Susan's in back with the archers, which means—oh _no_…_

It had only just occurred to Edmund that, while leading the charge against the Witch's army was all very well and good, he would be completely alone as he did it. In his mind's eye flashed a picture of a very short, very small human figure, running hundreds of yards ahead of everyone else toward a mass of enemy soldiers, waving a sword that was much too big for him. Largely exaggerated, but still discomfiting.

"…as archers, so if you feel that it would be better for them to act in that capacity…"

"Sorry," interrupted Edmund hastily, his cheeks burning as he realized what had happened. "Sorry, I wasn't—I wasn't listening…"

Thankfully, Ryndel did not seem annoyed, only amused. "I was saying, Your Highness, that less than an hour ago, a large band of fauns from the Northern Woods reached our camp and joined Aslan's army. They have been trained in archery as well as hand-to-hand combat with swords, and as King Peter is no longer here, I thought it best to ask your instructions as to where they should be placed."

"Oh, um…" Edmund thought very hard for a moment. "Well, we don't have many archers, right?"

Ryndel nodded.

"Then shouldn't they be archers?" This seemed logical, but Edmund was perfectly aware that he didn't know very much at all about this sort of thing. But Ryndel nodded approvingly.

"I will inform the fauns of their assignment," the centaur said. "And there was another matter I wished to speak to you about, concerning the giants…"

Edmund nodded. "I'll be right back, though," he said. "There's something I've got to do."

"As you wish, my king."

Still bearing his newly-forged armor, Edmund headed back in the direction of the tents. For a reason hardly explainable, he felt some unfinished business nagging at the back of his mind, and it was in order to rectify this that he made straight for the boys' tent.

It was strange to see everything as they had left it, only a few hours ago—the blankets draped over Peter's hammock were flipped over where he had gotten out of bed, the clothes he had shed were crumpled on the grass. Edmund dropped his armor with a loud clanking noise onto the ground, wincing at the sound, and moved forward.

Until now, he hadn't thought of what he wanted to do in here, or even why he had come. Now, though, an idea struck him, and it appealed to him in its poetic sort of justice: slay the Witch with the weapon of the one she had slain. Bending down, he moved Peter's things aside until he found, underneath the pile, the long, heavy scabbard he sought. Gingerly, he pulled the sword from its protective case.

The detail on this sword was different, and where on Edmund's weapon the gem was blue, here it was a bright, fierce red. Immediately when Edmund pulled it out, he noticed the weight as well; it was a good deal heavier than his own, though still manageable. Edmund laid it on the ground, long steel blade naked against the grass, and regarded it for a moment, breathing through spread fingers. He could feel the tears returning, _now_, of all times, and fought them back. His throat ached terribly.

After a long pause, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Peter."

A part of Edmund knew he ought to feel awfully ridiculous for addressing a sword as though it were his brother. But it didn't seem wrong, somehow—it seemed rather as though Peter could hear everything that was said, as though the sword were channeling Edmund's misery-ridden words. And oddly enough, it was this bizarre thought that allowed him to say all these things that he never would have said in life to Peter.

"I'm really sorry," Edmund said again. "I know it ought to have been me out there. You didn't have to. And I wish—I really wish you hadn't done it." He was choking the words out now. "I mean, how am I supposed to keep going, for the rest of my life, when I know it was all my fault?"

The sword did not answer, nor did Peter.

With a noise like a sob and a gasp at once, Edmund rubbed a brusque hand across his face. The words bursting within him had at last been let loose, and it gave him some peace—without another one, he sheathed Peter's sword once more and set it on top of his own armor. When the sun rose tomorrow, he would carry it into battle.

The remainder of the night Edmund spent walking around camp with Ryndel at his side, tending to every mundane chore and commonplace decision that somehow did not seem exciting enough to be connected to a battle that would decide the fate of a world. Later, they were joined by Bardane and Oreius. Until the first vague, grayish streaks of daylight began to pale against the horizon, Edmund was on his feet.

The worst part of it all, he would think later, was the silence that he had to hold—the never telling about the catastrophe that had taken place, the not letting on that beneath a carefully calm exterior, he was crying with fury and pain and hate. The news of Peter's death would have devastated Aslan's camp, and it could not be spread.

* * *

Edmund was caught up in his own emotions; he had forgotten about Susan, had left her in the tent by herself. She knew it, but didn't mind. She was glad for the time to herself, always, and especially now. 

Lucy's grief was mixed with bewilderment, Edmund's with rage—Susan's held fear. She hated the feeling; there was no fear in logic, no fear in maturity, but now it came to the fore, and with it all those other things disappeared into the background.

When Edmund left the tent with Ryndel, Susan stayed where she was for a while longer. A shudder of dread ran across her skin every time she thought of standing out there with the soldiers without Peter, without Aslan. It seemed inevitable that a stray arrow would strike her in the heart, a long sword would pierce her chest, and oh! she did not want to die.

There really was no way of telling time for certain. Sometime after two o'clock had passed, one of the centaurs—for the life of her, Susan could not remember his name, though she thought it might have started with an "F"—delivered a bundle of leather to the tent. She found it, after a moment's confusion, to be armor. Susan held each article up to the meager light, running her fingers over the smooth stitches. It was a welcome distraction, something for her to think about besides war, but one could only contemplate armor for a short time without moving on to what it must be for.

She tried it on anyway; it was a difficult task in the darkness, but Susan managed it to the best of her ability. A few pieces might have been donned incorrectly, but most of it felt right and even faintly comfortable, to her surprise. She flexed the leather-clad fingers of her left hand—her right was bare, to better grip the feathers of the arrow.

Oh, but it didn't matter, she thought despairingly. No matter what precautions were taken, surely her hand would fumble—her fingers would slip—the arrow would wobble feebly in the air and fall uselessly to the ground—or worse, into friendly flesh! Edmund had it easy; a sword's path lay always under his control, but once an arrow was loosed from a bow, it was relinquished entirely. This, at least, was Susan's perspective on the matter, and it seemed a most unjust one, too.

Hastily, she stripped off the armor and left it strewn across the ground. With only a desire to get out of here, Susan exited the tent and stepped into the starlight, looking about her for someplace else to go. She started walking, without purpose or direction, and when she saw Edmund with a centaur off in the distance, she avoided them. Susan did not want to talk.

As she walked, she looked up at the sky. She searched for familiar constellations for a moment before she remembered that these were altogether different heavens. It was not an entirely comforting thought.

She went toward what she remembered to be the east, toward the horizon, which was still an inky black. The further Susan went away from camp, the higher the ground rose, and by the time she reached what appeared to be the top of a hill she was puffing a bit. Stones as tall as her head rose around her; she rested a hand on one, and found it cool and rough under her skin.

Once Susan's eyes had accustomed themselves to the dim starlight, she was surprised to find that she was not standing on a hill as she had thought, but rather an immense, grassy cliff, stretching down for dozens of yards. Susan looked down a moment, then stepped quickly back, until a safe distance separated her from the edge. The cliff overlooked a vast plain, studded with rocks several feet high, reaching out into the distance until it melded into forest. The forest was so far away that Susan could only just make it out in the darkness, and she knew that the Witch's army was on the opposite side of it—but she did not feel any safer.

Having at last found a haven, she sat down in the soft grass with her knees drawn up to her chest under the Narnian gown. It was only then she discovered that she had neglected to remove the glove from her left hand in the tent. She took it off now, examined it briefly, then replaced it.

Up here, her worries did not disappear altogether, but they abated slightly. It seemed so difficult to imagine bloodshed in this beautiful place—Susan tried to picture two enormous armies marching toward each other on the field, swords flashing in the sun, red blood pouring out onto the grass, and somehow couldn't quite mange it. But she was frightened all the same, and more than anything right now, she wanted to go home. It was a useless wish—Susan knew for certain that, if they had been going to leave Narnia, they would have had to do it sooner than now. She thought of Lucy and envied her, staying by Aslan's side at such a time.

_We can't win,_ was the only thought in her mind, despairing as it was. _Not without Peter. We've lost the battle already. We can't win._

She had no recollection of falling asleep, but it must have happened all the same. The next thing that Susan knew, she was being shaken roughly by the shoulder.

"Sue? Susan, come on, wake up!"

She blinked once, twice, then groaned and looked around her. The air was still dark—she could hardly have been asleep for more than a few hours—but the eastern end of the sky had begun, very slowly, to light up. She sat up, to see Edmund with his hand still on her shoulder.

"Come on," he repeated. "You've got to get ready. Ryndel said it's almost dawn."

The fear that had been slowly fading away all through the night now twisted urgently in Susan's stomach. "Dawn?" she gasped.

It was light enough now that Susan could see the look upon Edmund's face, and it frightened her as well, for it was rare that she saw him look so very serious. He took her hand and pulled her up to her feet; for a moment, she forgot entirely that Edmund was a good year and a half younger than her.

"My—my armor's down in the tent," Susan stammered. Without another word, she ran down the hill as quickly as she could, her mussed and tangled hair flapping behind her. _I'm going to die,_ she thought, but there was no help for it now.

The camp had apparently been stirring for some time already. Frantic shouts rang out across the field as a faun's helmet was lost, someone had forgotten their place, the gryphons were not yet ready. Messengers, panting for breath and red-faced, ran from one end of the camp to the other, delivering important tidings that others did not have time to deliver themselves. Through the fast-moving crowd Susan ran, until she reached her own tent and the leather armor, spread haphazardly on the ground where she had left it.

She donned it once more, her fingers trembling as she did so. At least this time she could see a bit better than before, to tell whether or not she had something on backwards. But it took her much longer than she would have liked, as she had very little experience in this sort of thing.

As she dressed, she could hear the noises of the camp, only slightly muffled by the canvas surrounding her. No words could be distinguished, only vague murmurs, but then, slicing through the dull, meaningless noise came the sound of a horn being blown, twice in succession. The crowd noise faded immediately—then it returned, but this time, Susan could hear what was being said, and her breath caught in her throat with fear. _The Witch,_ the people moaned, _it's the Witch._

She heard them begin to run to the places Peter had set for them and Susan, only half dressed, began to move faster than she had thought was possible. Fumbling with haste, she tied the leggings around her calves and thighs, pulled the tunic over her head, slung the quiver over her back as she was pulling on her boots, and grabbed for the bow Father Christmas had given her.

When she stepped out of the tent, she was surprised to see how much lighter it had gotten in only a few minutes. It only occurred to her now that she had no idea where to go, but several other archers seemed to be making their way to the cliff she had visited earlier, and she followed them uncertainly, until they reached the top.

The sight below her took Susan's breath away. Fauns, dwarves, Talking Beasts, centaurs, Satyrs, and even what she thought might have been a real giant were spread before her in unbelievable multitude, miniaturized underneath her feet by the distance. Her eyes caught a flash of silver at the front, and she saw Edmund there, astride a beautiful dark brown Talking Horse, sword in hand.

Then her eyes moved upward, and she saw the Witch's army.

They did not seem like individuals to her, but rather one great black mass upon the horizon, darkening the ground as they did Susan's immediate future. As Susan watched, over a little outcrop rose a large form, white and gold against the blackness. It was the Witch herself.

The last time Susan had seen the Witch, she had bent over Peter and killed him. At the sight now, Susan had to bite her lip in order to stifle a noise of surprise.

The archers formed long rows beside and behind her; the armies stood ready, waiting only for their leaders' word. Susan's hand was shaking again—how could she fire an arrow like that?

Edmund raised his sword. A rare silence reigned over the field.

"For Narnia!" cried a voice so strong that Susan, for a moment, did not recognize it as Edmund's. "And for Aslan!"

Susan started, as every Narnian below the cliff began to rush forward, the Witch's creatures swarming toward them. From all around her she heard a whistling sound, as a hundred arrows at once flew through the air and over the heads of the Narnians, and she knew she must do the same.

Whenever she had pictured this time, for some reason her imagination caused a foggy dimness to descend over the scene and her arrows to fly shakily, made it impossible to distinguish innocent Narnian from wicked beast. But here she was, and everything was vibrant and hugely real. Susan raised her bow slowly, and her arm was steady.

_Oh, Aslan, give me Edmund's strength._

An arrow was drawn from the quiver; Susan fitted it to her bow in one smooth motion, as though she had been doing it her whole life. She drew the bow back, sighted, and fired, and her arrow flew with the others, sailing into enemy ranks. And her fear was gone.

"For Aslan!" she shouted, emulating the others around her. She wanted desperately to add, "And for Peter," but knew she mustn't.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as Susan and Edmund had gone, Lucy turned back to Peter, wiped the last faint smudge of blood from his cheek with her thumb. She did it less for the sake of cleanliness than simply as a mechanical gesture. 

"Lucy," said Aslan, walking to stand behind her, "Edmund did nothing wrong. You must not feel this way toward him."

"I don't feel anything about Edmund," said Lucy stiffly, lying. It was so transparent a lie that Aslan did not reprimand her for it, and after a moment, she rescinded it anyway.

"I don't understand it," she said sadly, bitterness in her tone. Tears pricked her eyes yet again; it was a night full of them. "That _beast_—Aslan, how _could_ he?"

"You are too willing to think the worst of your brother," Aslan reprimanded her sternly. "Dear heart, Edmund knew nothing of this. It was Peter's choice, and it was right."

An awful thought struck Lucy. "Oh, Aslan, you didn't _tell_ him to go instead of Edmund! You couldn't have!"

"No, child. Then it would not have been his choice, but mine, and useless."

Lucy had not finished. She rose up on her knees to face Aslan. "But you knew he would do that. You knew, and—and—and you let him go…" Her voice trailed off in a miserable, pregnant quiet. Hers was an anger born of out of bewilderment and fear—in Lucy churned an ugly mixture of emotions that was the exact opposite of the great Lion's presence beside her. Gently Aslan bent his head and licked her face, and his eyes were sad as he saw the turmoil in Lucy's heart.

"Have faith," he rumbled as his forehead touched hers. "All will come right. Peter's death shall not be in vain."

Lucy's eyes fell closed. "Why did you let him die?" she asked, in a voice so quiet that only in a place like this could it be heard. "We had to be kings and queens at Cair Paravel, but Peter's dead, and now we can't ever be." She knew she ought not to say what came next out of her mouth, but consequences seemed as much a dead thing here as did Peter, and nothing was as it should have been tonight. The words tumbled out, half-sobbed. "You needed him, just as much as everyone else did. He'll never be king, and Narnia won't ever, _ever_ be rid of that awful Witch."

"But he was a king."

Lucy half drew back, startled as she searched Aslan's face for an explanation. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Peter sacrificed his life for another," said Aslan softly. "A High King of Narnia can do nothing less for his land. If Peter had shied away and let Edmund go to his death, he would no longer be worthy of a Narnian crown; but only a true High King would have the strength to make such a decision at all."

She frowned, trying to make sense of it. It eluded her, somehow; she did not see how one could walk into a forest a boy and come out of it a king. It was then she remembered the look upon Peter's face—tragically noble, painfully brave, and layered with sorrow.

"I…I think I understand," she said slowly.

"I believe you do," said Aslan.

Another realization came over her, but it did not seem horrible, only real. "You left on purpose," Lucy said emotionlessly. "Because Peter only could have done it if you were gone."

"Dear heart," said Aslan, with that lion-smile playing on his face, "I would never have deserted you in such a time as this. You know that, do you not?"

Lucy's hand found Aslan's mane once more. "Yes," she said softly. "I do." The touch of lion fur gave her other hand courage to touch Peter's fingers once more. They were still warm.

After that, Lucy's world fell into a confusing mixture of blurry wakefulness and fitful sleep, each for only a couple minutes. Once, she woke up to find her cheek pressed to the Stone Table, and when she attained enough consciousness to look around, she saw that Aslan had moved to stand between two of the giant stone pillars, looking out at something Lucy could not see. She moved to stand beside him.

Though Aslan did not move his head to look at her, he spoke. "The sun will rise in three hours. My army will meet the Witch on the battlefield southeast of here."

"Should I be with them?" asked Lucy.

"No. You are a lioness, but your arms were not made to hold weapons stained with blood."

"Oh," said Lucy. She felt alert, but slow, as though she were moving in water, every movement deliberate and majestic. It was difficult to keep her eyes open, but not from drowsiness. "Why don't you go to them?"

"Because just as it was Peter's test to die for his brother, it is Edmund's to prove himself as a leader and as a king."

"Oh," Lucy said again. She understood perfectly, and wondered if Edmund would die as well. The thought saddened her, but she thought that if it happened, it would be bearable, just as she had learned already to bear Peter's death.

The next time she awoke, though, she was kneeling awkwardly on the hard ground, her head and shoulder leaning against the rough stone of the Table, and tears were streaming down her face, though she had no recollection of shedding them. Her eyes flicked over to Peter's prone figure, and she began to weep again.

"Lucy," said Aslan, walking toward her. Her shoulders were shaking.

"I wish he hadn't died!" Lucy sobbed. "I wish he hadn't!" Her eyes were shut tightly, tears leaking out of them again, but she felt the lion breath on her skin, and gradually her sobs eased.

"I know," Aslan murmur regretfully. "I wish it, as well." So deep ran the sorrow in his voice that Lucy was somehow comforted, if only slightly. Without knowing it, she fell once more into light sleep.

She awoke twice more, but had someone asked her what, if anything, had been said then, she could not have told them, for she did not remember. It was the third time, however, that Aslan woke her.

"Lucy." The voice shocked her out of sleep like a startled doe. She raised a weary head. Aslan was standing on the Table, beside Peter's body. "Lucy, wake up."

She crawled up onto the Stone Table and, on impulse, took Peter's hand in both her own. It was cold and stiff now, but she did not drop it in horror, as the old Lucy would have done. Instead, she rubbed her fingers diligently across the waxy skin, as though she could bring the warmth back into Peter by doing so.

"Look, dear heart," said Aslan, on the other side of Peter as he looked over the hills. "The sun is rising."

Lucy looked up from her useless task, Peter's arm resting in her lap—the first strands of pink, gold and gray had begun to unravel across the sky. She had seen several sunrises in England before, but something in Aslan's voice made her keep watching.

She kept her eyes obediently on the sky—nothing seemed to change, but when she dropped her gaze for an instant and then looked up again, she was surprised at the change. Lucy continued to watch, and the sight took her breath away.

She _had_ seen sunrises before, but never in Narnia. It was exactly the same as an English one, and yet so magnificently different that a thousand words should have seemed inadequate. Every color was a million times brighter and more beautiful than in our world, every shape more perfectly formed. And when the tip of the sun at last showed itself between the two pillars, in the same place Aslan had stood earlier, Lucy gasped.

She looked at Aslan—he was facing the sun, his eyes alight, every golden fur on his body seeming to glow in the new light. She looked back at the sun, and found it to be halfway arisen already.

The golden, blazing orb continued its slow-moving path up into the sky. At last, it was entirely free of the constraints of the earth, and Lucy wanted to clap her hands for joy. In that same instant from behind her, however, Aslan repeated her name.

"Lucy."

She turned halfway to look at him, still on her knees. Aslan's gaze met hers with eyes that seemed to echo every thought Lucy had ever had.

"Dear heart," he said, and Lucy's heart ached with the beauty of him and his voice and the sun and the pain that lay before her. "Dear heart, this is my grace to you."

And he knelt, baring his teeth, and breathed a fierce, hot breath over Peter, from head to toe.

As with the sunrise, Lucy saw no change at first. Peter remained as he had all night long, still and pale like some morbid wax figure, half-covered by Lucy's abandoned cloak. There was nothing to indicate that Aslan had changed anything at all.

And then Lucy shrieked, and clapped a hand to her mouth, for beyond a shadow of a doubt she had seen Peter's shoulder move.

All the air seemed to have fled from her lungs. She could only watch, transfixed and stunned, as the cloak rose unmistakably and then fell again, as Peter took a real, living breath. His eyes remained closed, but his mouth fluttered open suddenly, as though he could not pull in enough air after being deprived of it for so long.

His eyes opened, and fell immediately upon the lion beside him. "Oh, Aslan…" he breathed. No words had ever been spoken with greater longing or regret—they pleaded to be realized.

But Aslan said, enigmatically, "Narnia has need of you yet, High King. You will return, do not fear, and it will not seem so long until then."

Peter nodded resignedly, pushing himself up into a sitting position with arms that no longer bore the marks of the Witch's fury. It was then that he saw Lucy, and his eyes lit up. He stood, throwing off the cloak, but before he could move again Lucy ran to him and hugged him as hard as she could. She was crying again as she buried her head in his shoulder, but these were tears of utter happiness.

"Lu, Lu, it's ok," Peter said as he held her, but Lucy felt saltwater drop onto her collar, and knew Peter was crying too. Her small hands were reached as far around his back as they could go, but his skin was smooth and unmarred—there was nothing physical to betray the torture he had experienced only a few hours ago.

"You're alive," she gasped, breathless with happiness. Peter pulled back, cupping his hands around her shoulders fondly. Lucy looked into his face and saw a light that had not been there before, making him appear either older or younger than he really was.

"Oh, Lucy," he said fervently, "If you knew where I was…"

"Tell me!" she pleaded with a laugh. But Peter shook his head, grinning.

"I'd do a miserable job of describing it," he said. "But I promise you, Lucy, you'll love it. It's your sort of place."

She could persuade him to talk no further on his account of this mysterious land to which he had gone, and gave up after a few moments. The giddiness she felt did not allow for such serious subjects. When Peter finally let her go, she ran to Aslan and embraced him, repeating thanks over and over, and Aslan smiled to see her elation.

In the daylight, the clearing seemed a different place entirely than the ugly, terrifying place it had been the night before. The knife on the ground, the dark blood splotched against the stone, seemed no longer horrible, but rather almost comical, because despite the Witch's best efforts they had done nothing.

It felt, for a time, as though time had stopped completely, frozen this little space to stay as it was while the rest of the world moved on, and there would be nothing for either of them to do for the rest of their lives but rejoice in Peter's life. But at the back of their minds, both knew this was not the case. After what seemed like a great deal of time, Peter turned to Aslan.

"Is Edmund all right?" he asked, and all of a sudden his voice was strained. For the first time, Lucy recalled the Witch's cruel, traitorous words—the very last thing Peter had heard before the knife fell—and understood his concern.

Aslan bent his head in assent. "Your brother is well," he said. "This very moment, he leads a charge against the Witch's army."

Peter's face took on an expression of alarm. "Aslan, I've got to go to them," he said urgently. "I can't leave Edmund alone like that."

"You will join them soon," Aslan assured him. "But in the meantime, both Edmund and Susan have borne their part bravely. You need not fear for them."

Peter gave a short nod. It was obvious that he trusted Aslan's promise implicitly.

"And now," said Aslan, "we have a long journey to take, for the Witch's sanctuary is empty. You both must ride on my back."

Lucy laughed with delight at the thought, and scrambled up onto Aslan's back. Peter sat in front of her, clutching handfuls of lion mane, and made her take hold of his waist.

"Hold on tight," Aslan warned them. Then he stretched underneath them, and began to run, so wonderfully fast that Lucy could hardly catch her breath.


	7. Chapter 7

Edmund had only one thought in mind as his horse raced forward: get to the Witch. Find her, break through her wall of obedient-unto-death monsters, and kill her. The red-hot fury had cooled, so that his head was level, his thoughts coming in short, succinct bursts. _Find her. Kill her._ _For Peter. Kill her._

An ogre came charging toward him, spiked club raised clumsily over its head. Edmund pulled Philip only just in time to the side, and struck out as hard as he could with his—Peter's—sword. Far sharper than it looked, the blade sliced into the ogre's stomach, and, sounding almost confused, the giant creature gave one last howl of anger and then fell to its knees.

There was no time for Edmund to get frightened, to suddenly realize with a start how easy it was to kill. The battle raged on, and now and then through the mass of bodies he could see flashes of pale, hard gold on the horizon. He plowed across the field toward them, mowing down those that blocked his path, but his progress was interminably slow. Every step, another axe lashed out at him and he must block it, a Hag's vicious claws reached for his eyes and neck and he must cut them down. For the first time he wondered if he would die, but had no time to seriously consider the idea, for his sword seemed needed everywhere at once.

Without warning he felt Philip's bulk give way beneath him, jerking abruptly. Edmund looked down, alarmed, and saw dark blood oozing from a thick cut in the horse's shoulder. _Oh no, no._ At once he slid off Philip's back and looked around wildly; there seemed to be no immediate danger racing toward them.

"Can you run back?" he asked, shouting above the battle cries.

Philip's head jerked up and down. A horsy breath escaped his lips, and he muttered, "Forgive me, my king—", then turned and began an odd, three-legged canter up the hill.

Edmund knew he was at a great disadvantage without a mount—common sense, rather than experience, told him that—and he was struck by how much shorter he seemed in comparison to all around him now. _Protect me, Aslan, _he prayed. He caught a glimpse of the Witch's chariot, drawn by two enormous white bears, and, bearing his sword before him, returned to the fray.

He did possess one advantage that he had not before, and that was of height. Much smaller now, Edmund was less of a target, slipping beneath the crowd rather than shoving his way through it. Over the battle noise, he heard the Witch's voice scream out in wicked triumph, and fought toward the sound.

A ghoul, bat-like wings protruding from its bony back, suddenly landed before him, hissing and spitting in anger. Edmund drew back in shock, then fell to with his sword, as it seemed he had done a thousand times before. The ghoul, frail for all its blustering, fell to the ground after a single blow, and _there, standing behind it, was the Witch._

Her back was turned to him; she stood upon her own two legs, apparently having willfully abandoned her chariot, at the very edge of the battle—perhaps she had been making her way to Aslan. Edmund watched, stunned, as she dispatched a Talking Bear and a faun at once, the former with her wand and the latter with her sword. That wand…she held it close to her body, careful not to touch herself with its point. Before he even knew what he was doing, Edmund ran forward—she could not have heard him over the roar—and swung his sword as hard as he possibly could against her leg.

Several things happened at once then: the Witch whirled, cried out in pain and surprise—there was blood on her leg, though not much—and a blast of light erupted from her broken wand. Edmund instinctively shielded his eyes, and when he looked again, the Witch was facing him.

Her dark eyes seemed to glow, her tongue running over bloodless lips; she looked forward to killing him, keeping her twisted promise to Peter. Edmund could not move—he only stood there, unable to tear his gaze from hers. She did not appear to feel the cut in her leg.

"So, little _king_," she spat, "You wish your brother's fate?"

Her sword flew down upon him.

* * *

"Do you see your brother?" asked Aslan. 

Peter shook his head wordlessly; around him, people and Talking Beasts of all sorts swarmed down the hill, into the battlefield, but Peter would not go until he saw where Edmund was, and could go to him.

"I can't find him," said Peter, and there was a note of tension in his voice that only Aslan would have been able to hear. Were they too late? After leaving the Stone Table, it had seemed they'd run for hours, though it might have only been a half-hour or so. And then every Narnian in the Witch's palace had needed attention—imprisoned in stone, they could do nothing until Aslan had breathed upon each one of them, as he had done to Peter.

It was impossible to grudge them this freedom, and Peter had no doubts of Aslan's word, but still every moment had been agony. To know that Edmund was out there on the battlefield by himself, and there being nothing he, Peter, could do about it, was maddening.

From there, he and Lucy had returned upon Aslan's back to camp, for as anxious as Peter was to get into battle, he was still weaponless and without armor. His own sword he could not find, but he took what was presumably Edmund's, since it was the closest thing at hand, and hastily donned his own mail. He had left Lucy at the camp, with those who were too old or otherwise unable to fight, and she had not made too great a fuss.

Peter's hand gripped the unfamiliar hilt restlessly. Common sense told him that he must remain here, with a view of the entire battle, so that he could go to Edmund as soon as he saw him. His instincts said otherwise: they wanted him to charge into the fray at full speed, tearing through whatever dark minion passed his way until he reached his brother's side. He was reaching his patience's end.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a horse moving slowly across the field, with no one on its back. It was the liver chestnut Edmund had ridden yesterday, and it was limping, badly. Peter's throat suddenly grew very tight. Edmund couldn't be far from his horse…

* * *

She was using her now-powerless wand as a second sword, its jagged, broken point moving swiftly in the air. Edmund, who until now had been fighting relatively weak enemies, was suddenly faced with a well-trained, powerful foe, and it was all he could do simply to keep his sword moving wherever did hers. 

Everything Oreius had taught them now fled his mind. He swung wildly as his instincts dictated, with no rhyme or reason to the movements, and only just barely did he manage to block her vicious blows.

When he could, he tried to hack at her bare arms, hoping to wound her badly enough to earn himself a respite. But there was very little time for an offense, when Edmund was backing up so rapidly, attempting to stay away from the whirling blades but being constantly forced toward the huge gray boulders behind him. Once his back was to the rock, all was lost.

He lashed out again at her right arm—her sword came up to block it—and then Edmund could not have said exactly what happened. Where before there had been resistance, his sword pushed through, and a cry of pain that was not his rang through the air.

Startled, he stepped backward, rather than pressing his advantage as an veteran swordsman would have known to do. The Witch was awkwardly half-bent, her long fingers pressed to the hard mail at her torso as she let her wand fall to the ground. Her mouth was open in shock, little half-gasps of breath emerging from it. Blood seeped from underneath the chest plate and spread onto her skirt of chain mail; the dark silver was stained red. Slowly Edmund began to realize what had happened: somehow his sword had slid underneath her armor, wounding her in the abdomen. A lucky blow.

"You fancy yourself a warrior, boy?" she spat, straightening painfully until she stood erect. It did not occur to Edmund that she might be weakened. She looked as strong as ever—more so, and fiercer, like a wounded animal that has done with playing games. The confident, almost indolent cruelness was gone from her manner; now her voice was cold, her eyes blazing with undisguised fury and hatred. "I shall teach you to fight. Miserable _child!_"

As though in a dream, Edmund felt the thick sword blade bite into his side—his eyes shut as his face clenched in pain, and something heavy and cold thudded into his stomach. Suddenly he couldn't breathe; his mouth opened and closed in a silent, frantic plea for air, and none was granted him. He hit the ground, toppled over onto the grass.

_Peter…

* * *

_

Peter screamed Edmund's name, but it was lost among the thousands of other cries. Already he was running forward, feet pounding on the beaten earth.

She was standing over him with an expression of deepest loathing upon her features. Her sword was raised for a blow that, in all probability, would not be needed—Peter shouted as he ran, no words, only to distract her, and the Witch whirled to face him.

The shock on her face transcended all other passions that moved within her. His blood had dripped from her fingers, and yet there he stood. Now it was her turn to be frozen to the ground, so startled that no other thoughts remained in her head. The idea of death to a tyrant such as herself was one of terrible finality; Peter, simply by existing, shattered this supposition and frightened her terribly.

Peter swung with all his might at her neck, her arms, her ankles, her face, anything not covered wholly by armor. She blocked him mechanically, retreating as Edmund had done a moment ago. Experience made up for lack of enthusiasm at first, but her earlier wound hampered her greatly, and Peter was merciless. He had no care for technique or stance, but fury and fear drove his blows, giving them threefold the power they ought to have had. The sword flew from her hand—blood appeared suddenly on the ground, but Peter did not stop, not until he saw her fall, and then he ran to his brother.

Edmund's breathing was harsh and irregular as he lay beside the rock—he didn't seem to be able to inhale, and his eyes were shut tightly. He could see nothing behind him; it was only when Peter knelt at his brother's side, futilely attempting to move the chain mail aside and examine the wound, that Edmund saw who it was, and his eyes grew wide.

"Peter…" The word seemed to barely make it out of Edmund's mouth; it was still a struggle for him to breathe. He abruptly grabbed Peter's arm, as though ensuring that it was real and tangible, flesh and bone instead of disappearing before his eyes.

"Yes, it's me, I'm all right," Peter said, his voice tight.

"I saw you…" Edmund insisted breathlessly. "At the Table."

"It's all right," repeated Peter. He was truly anxious now; there was no way to get to the wound without taking off all Edmund's armor. If only he hadn't left Lucy at camp… "Don't worry; Aslan fixed everything."

Whatever Edmund's state might have been, it was obvious that he was in no condition to fight at the immediate time. Peter took his brother under the arms and moved him awkwardly a few feet behind the rock, hiding them from the rest of the battle. He didn't want Edmund going anywhere until he knew what was wrong with him.

Leaning gingerly against the stone as he sat, Edmund looked up at Peter with those familiar dark eyes, so different from the Witch's cold gaze. There was a world of emotions behind them, confusion and relief and happiness and fear and a million other things that Peter could not read. His breathing had begun to ease, but Peter could not help expecting to see blood soaking through the armor and tunic at any moment.

"Did you…" Edmund had to pause and take another breath before he could continue. "Did you kill the Witch?"

Peter frowned, biting his lip. Until now, he had not given her a second thought. He looked around the rock; Edmund, with a groan, pushed himself to his feet and watched as Peter crossed the few paces to where the Witch lay, very still.

At first, Peter was reluctant to go near her. She might very well have been dead—then again, maybe not, and he didn't want to find out that the latter was true because she leaped up and stuck something into his chest. With the toe of his boot, he nudged her splayed arm, and she did not move.

"I _think_ she's dead," he said hesitantly, turning back to Edmund. Edmund's eyes suddenly widened again in terror.

"Peter!" he shouted, pointing at something over his brother's shoulder. Peter whirled, sword outstretched, and even before he saw what had alarmed Edmund so he heard a high-pitched, animalistic cry of pain and felt his blade slide deep into flesh. Alarmed, he looked to see a gaunt, gray figure with very long claws, standing only inches away from his face. There was blood running all down its furry front where the blade had cut into him, and as Peter watched, swiftly moving away, it gave a last half-hearted swipe with its claws and then fell backwards. Peter felt sickened—that had been very close.

He turned back to Edmund, who looked very relieved as he stood beside the boulder. "That's your life I've just saved," said Edmund with a faint smile.

"That's twice I've saved yours," Peter retorted. At this, Edmund's face grew serious. He looked as though he were about to speak, but Peter preempted him. "Are you all right?" he asked, realizing for the first time that his brother sounded normal again. Edmund nodded.

"I'm fine," he said. "I just got the wind knocked out of me."

Peter's eyes flicked to Edmund's side. "What about the sword?" Edmund shook his head.

"I think it's just a scratch," he said. "The armor stopped most of it."

Peter nodded slowly, and they lapsed into silence. It was impossible to ignore the sounds of battle that were so close, and there was so much between them that neither knew what to say. At last Edmund looked up, appearing as though he would burst if he did not speak.

"Look, Peter," he said finally, his voice uncertain, "I—I'm really—"

But whatever he had been about to say was cut short by the sounds of dozens of horns being blown loudly across the battlefield. From somewhere, an unintelligible cry was heard—Peter and Edmund were too far away to hear it, but it was quickly picked up by the enthusiastic Narnians as their new battle cry.

"She's dead! The Witch is dead!"

The stance of the battle changed dramatically after that; before, there had been two sides, each with a champion, each seemingly equal as neither one gained or lost ground. Now, though, the Witch's minions were without a leader—as though she had been the only thing holding them together and in place, suddenly they fell apart. Without a cause to die for, they became desperate to live. Many simply dropped whatever weapons they held and fled, and the Narnians chased after them with a will.

Once Edmund had snatched his sword from the ground, the Pevensie boys joined the chase; they ran as fast as they could under their bulky armor, daring with shouts and blows the Witch's dark creatures ever to return to Narnia. Anyone who had known them back in England, had they been there at that moment, would have scarcely recognized the two of them at all. It was no longer British blood but Narnian that flowed through their veins, and the light in their eyes could not be attained by anything in our world. Had Edmund known of the test Aslan had set him, he would have been certain that, in that moment, he had passed.

* * *

The aftermath of the battle was, put simply, very confusing. It was a Narnian victory, and for that they were all glad, but there were some of their own left on the battlefield as well, lying side-by-side with the Witch's creatures. This created a general atmosphere of triumph and joy that mixed with sorrow, so that no one knew precisely how to feel. A few of them had only been turned to stone, and these Aslan could breathe back to life as he had done so many others, but dozens more were gone for good. 

Despite having undergone the most surreal experiences of his life in the past day, Peter was still High King after all, and so with Aslan had to tend to all the minor grievances and problems of the camp. There was, of course, the debate of what to do with the Narnian dead. Eventually it was decided that the bodies of the dwarves would be given to the dwarves, the Talking Beasts to the Talking Beasts, and so forth, that each one lost might be buried according to his or her own customs.

As for the others, a good quantity of Talking Moles was found, after a fair amount of searching in the nearby woods, and when the situation was explained, they agreed with pleasure to dig a pit large enough to dispose of the Witch and several of her minions. Lucy, watching them burrow with a will, remarked surprisedly that you never would have guessed such small things could make a hole so big. There was a great cheer when the Witch was thrown in atop the heap of bodies.

Susan was yet the only Pevensie who did not know Peter had been resurrected, and Peter, completely forgetting this, did not once think to tell her. It was only when they stumbled upon each other in the middle of the camp that Peter remembered and related, if a bit belatedly, the important news. Susan had looked as though she would faint, but, being Susan, had gotten over the moment quickly.

At long last, when darkness had fallen and everyone was hot and weary and dead sick of anything to do with confrontation of any sort, Aslan declared that it was time to retire. Relieved, Peter and Edmund returned to their tent.

Without any other sort of attire, Edmund wore the red lion tunic as he climbed up into his bed. Peter had not even changed out of his armor yet—he sat on his hammock, rocking gently back and forth with one leg kicking every so often against the ground. His eyes were distant and thoughtful, as though he were looking at something Edmund could not see.

"Are you going to bed?" asked Edmund finally in an exasperated voice. "Because if you're not, you ought to at least put the candle out so I can sleep."

"Sorry," Peter apologized, rising. Half-turning his back to Edmund in an instinctive gesture of modesty, he began to undress. "I can put it out now, if you like."

"No, that's fine."

Peter unbuckled the sword from his belt, letting out a slight groan as his weight shifted. Laying it on the ground in its scabbard, he made to rise again, then paused. Still on one knee, he looked over at the weapon Edmund had left lying on top of his armor near the foot of his hammock.

"Is that my sword?" he asked suddenly.

Edmund's ears went red. "Yes," he admitted defensively. "So what?"

"What were you doing with my sword?" Peter demanded.

"Nothing."

"How come you took my sword? You had one of your own."

"Well, _you_ had it then," Edmund pointed out intelligently.

"Obviously," said Peter disparagingly, standing up and quickly ridding himself of the rest of the armor. He stretched, then reached for the tunic on the ground and pulled it on. "That was because I couldn't find _mine_."

There was a pause. "I dunno," said Edmund, sounding a bit embarrassed. "Seemed like—like the right thing to do, I guess." Another pause, and then he spoke again—perhaps out of a fervent desire to change the subject, but the question was in earnest all the same.

"Were you scared?" he asked quietly. Peter turned around; it had never impressed him before how small Edmund was. He looked so very much like the child he was, but Peter never would have dreamed of commenting on it. Insults were for times when their bases were untrue. Peter cleared his throat softly.

"When?"

Edmund shrugged. "Anytime during the battle, I guess. Didn't you get scared when you saw them all running at you like that?" He laughed a little, his dark eyes slipping up to the ceiling. "It's so stupid, you know. I mean, we'd had those wolves chasing us and everything. It's not like we've never been in danger in Narnia before the battle, but—" He hesitated. "That was sort of the first time that I realized it wasn't some great game we'd all been playing, and we couldn't just stop whenever we wanted to. It was actually real…I don't think I'd understood that before."

Peter nodded slowly. "I know what you mean," he agreed. He had to think about it for a moment. "I guess—you'll think this is crazy—but I sort of forgot to be afraid. I was so busy worrying about everything, about—about you, I wasn't thinking about the Witch, or dying, at all."

There was only the sound of breathing from the other side of the tent. Forgotten, the candle on the ground between them flickered on the walls, on their faces, casting strange shadows over everything.

"What about at the Table?" asked Edmund abruptly. "Were you scared then?"

Peter looked away. "So, you saw that?"

Edmund nodded.

"All of you?"

Another nod.

Under his breath, Peter muttered something that might have been a curse. "None of you should have been there," he said to Edmund. "Especially Lucy—you shouldn't have let her see something like that."

"You didn't want us to see?"

"Well, not _her_, at least," sputtered Peter. "She's nine, Ed!"

"But what about me?" pressed Edmund, always in that quiet, strangely intense voice. "Not even me?"

Peter twisted his mouth, slightly irritated. He felt like an anonymous do-gooder caught in the act, and he felt embarrassed. "Never mind," he said shortly, sitting down on the hammock. "It's done, and it doesn't matter."

"You didn't answer my question," Edmund said sharply, raising himself up onto his elbows and looking over at Peter. "Were you scared?"

"Yes, all right?" said Peter—his tone was not necessarily unkind, but harsher than he'd meant it to sound. "It wasn't exactly the happiest half-hour of my life. I didn't even know what she was going to do to me. You're bloody well right, I was scared."

"Oh," said Edmund, in a voice barely audible. Immediately, Peter understood the reason for all of Edmund's probing questions, and he felt very guilty.

"I don't regret it, though," he added slowly, after a moment's pause. "I'm glad everything happened the way it did. If I hadn't gone…things would have been much worse."

He waited for a response, the truth hanging in the air. When there was no response, he laid down on the hammock between the soft Narnian blankets, dreading the awkwardness between the two of them that tomorrow morning would bring after such a clumsy end to their conversation. He turned to put out the candle.

"Peter?" said Edmund softly, gazing determinedly at the ceiling again. Peter looked up at him.

"Yeah?"

Edmund turned on his side to face his brother. He appeared fairly uncomfortable, as though entirely unsure how to say whatever he wanted to. At last, he took a breath.

"I'm really glad you're all right," he said, the words spoken quickly, but sincerely.

Peter grinned at him in acknowledgment. "What about you?" he asked then. "Were you scared?"

His large eyes reflecting the faintest hint of a smile, Edmund shook his head. "Only when you were gone," he replied. Reaching for the candle, he extinguished it with a single puff of air. Together, they slept soundly that night.

_fin_


End file.
